5*f, 


i  I 


OF-CALIFO^ 


c=        25 

s     ^ 


*  i 


KURKHtf 


*.  ^ 

9    = 


£        ^ 

§       >• 


I! 


fSSl 


^1      %^^   ^g        g^JI    I  g     £ 

Jraw-smy      "MSBAW^        >&AavaaiH^      ^Aavaan-i^ 


HIBRARYQ*        ^IIIBRARY^ 

'&  §  1  fr^i 


^itwivas^ 


;  ^Ic^Ai     S 


lOSANGElfj^ 


vr/vs  %vr^if    if-i^fjg  ^-=P°^§ 

famo-jo^    ^/ojnvj-jo^      ^UDNYSOI^     %jHAWfl-3«? 


}!  i 

/s  * 


^  4? 


\)g  1 

» s^>    ^> 


'%       xOFCAllFO^,  ^ 

) 


^     * 
& 


<       i 


II 


£j.        «2>v 

'T1  5    ' 

1    i( 


lOSANCElfj>  ^ 

<=>      -^  x*v__^  g  g  A 

i  §^^;i  i 

5.-p  ^  % 


I   § 


%a3AINfl]\\ 


y  1 


JO^ 


- 


++ 


Entered  according  to  the  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844,  bj 

S.  DOUGLAS  VVYETH, 

in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  district  court  of  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


Stack 

A 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION— BY  REV.  JOHN  TODD      -        -11 
LINES,  by  Professor  Smyth  of  Cambridge,  on  a  monu- 
ment erected  by  Frances  Boot,  Esq.,  an  American 
Gentleman,  in  All  Saints'  Church,  Cambridge,  to 
the  memory  of  Henry  Kirke  White       ...      56 
ACCOUNT  OF   THE    LIFE    OF    HENRY   KIRKE 
WHITE— BY  ROBERT  SOUTHEY        ...      57 

POEMS    INSERTED   IN    THE   LIFE. 

To  the  Herb  Rosemary     ......  72 

To  the  Morning — written  during  Illness    ...  73 

Ode  on  Disappointment    ......  83 

CLIFTON  GROVE  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Title 113 

Dedication 114 

Preface 115 

To  my  Lyre 117 

Clifton  Grove 119 

MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Gondoline -136 

Lines  written  on  a  survey  of  the  heavens  in  the  mor- 
ning; before  day-break  ......  148 

Lines  supposed  to  be  spoken  by  a  lover  at  the  grave 
of  his  Mistress 150 

iii 


2041709 


IV  CONTENTS. 

My  Study.    A  letter  in  Hudibrastic  Verse         -        -  152 

To  an  early  Primrose 156 

BONNETS. 

I.  To  the  River  Trent 157 

II.  "  Give  me  a  cottage  on.  some  Cambrian  wild"       -  157 

III.  Supposed  to  have  been  addressed  by  a  female  lu- 
natic to  a  lady       .......  158 

IV.  Supposed  to  be  written  by  the  unhappy  poet  Der- 
mody,  in  a  storm,  while  on  board  a  ship  in  his 
Majesty's  Service 159 

V.  The  Winter  Traveller 159 

VI.  "  Ye,  whose  aspirings  court  the  muse  of  lays'*    •  160 

VII.  "Let  the  sublimer  muse,  who,  wrapt  in  night"  161 

VIII.  On  hearing  the  sounds  of  an  Eolian  Harp        -  162 

IX.  What  art  thou,  Mighty  One !  and  where  thy  seat?  162 
A  Ballad.     Be  hushed,  be  hushed,  ye  bitter  winds      -  163 
The  Lulluby  of  a  female  Convict  to  her  Child  -        -  164 

POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 

Ode,  to  H.  Fuseli,  Esq.  R.  A 169 

Ode,  addressed  to  the  Earl  of  Carlisle  R.  G       -        -  172 

Description  of  a  Summer's  Eve         -         -         -        -  175 

To  Contemplation 177 

Ode  to  the  Genius  of  Romance          -        -        -        -182 

The  Savoyard's  Return 183 

Lines.     "  Go  to  the  raging  sea,  and  say  be  still"         -  185 

Written  in  the  Prospect  of  Death  -        -        -  187 

Pastoral  Song 189 

"When  Pride  and  Envy,  and  the  Scorn"  ...  190 

Epigram  on  Robert  Bloomfield 191 

Ode  to  Midnight      - 191 

Ode  to  Thought.    Written  at  Midnight    .        -        -192 

Genia. 194 


CONTENTS.  V 

Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  the  Moon     -        -        -  -  198 

-  "  Loud  rage  the  winds  without"         -  -  200 

-  "  Oh  thou  most  fatal  of  Pandora's  train"  -  201 


To  Capel  Lofft,  Esq  .......  202 

To  the  Moon.     Written  in  November         -        -         -  203 

Written  at  the  grave  of  a  Friend       ....  204 

To  Misfortune           .......  204 

"  As  thus  oppressed  with  many  u  heavy  care"    -        -  205 

To  April.         ...                  ....  206 

"  Ye  unseen  spirits,  whose  wild  melodies"          -        -  206 

To  a  Taper      ........  207 

To  my  Mother         .......  207 

«'  Yes  'twill  be  over  soon"          .....  208 

To  Consumption       .......  209 

"  Thy  judgments,  Lord,  are  just  ;  thou  lovest  to  wear"  209 

Hymn.     "  The  Lord  our  God  is  clothed  with  might"  210 

-  «  The  Lord  our  God  is  Lord  of  all"    -        -  211 

-  "  Through  sorrow's  night,  and  danger's  path"  212 

-  "  Much  in  sorrow,  oft  in  woe"     ...  213 

-  .     "Christians!  brethren!  ere  we  part"  -        -  213 
Sounet.     "Poor  little  one!  most  bitterly  did  pain"     -  214 

-  .    To  a  friend  in  distress         ....  215 

-  Christmas  Day   ......  216 

-  NelsoniMors      ......  219 

Hymn.     "  Awake  sweet  Harp  of  Judah,  wake"-        -  220 

-  •'  O  Lord,  another  day  is  flown"  ...  222 

-  The  Star  of  Bethlehem       .        .        -        .224 

-  O  Lord  our  God  in  mercy  turn  ...  225 
Melody.     Yes,  once  more  that  dying  strain        .        .  226 
Song.—  By  Waller    .......  227 

"  I  am  pleased,  and  yet  I'm  sad"       ....  228 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Solitude 230 

If  far  from  me  the  fates  remove         -        -        -        .231 

Fanny !  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not  lie       ...  231 
POEMS  OF  VARIOUS  DATES. 

CHILDHOOD  Part  1 235 

Part  II 241 

The  dance  of  the  Consumptives.    An  eccentric  Drama  250 

To  a  friend.     Written  at  a  very  early  age         -        -  256 

Lines,  on  reading  the  Poems  of  Warton    ...  258 

To  the  Muse 259 

To  Love 261 

The  Wandering  Boy 262 

Fragment,    The  Western  Gale          -        -        -        -263 

Ode,  written  on  Whit-Monday 266 

Canzonet.     "  Maiden  wrap  thy  mantle  round  thee"    -  267 

Commencement  of  it  Poem  on  Despair       ...  268 

To  the  Wind  at  midnight 270 

Sonnet.     To  December 272 

The  fair  Maid  of  Clifton 273 

Song.     The  Robin  Red-breast 277 

Winter  Song 278 

Song.    "  Sweet  Jessy !  I  would  fain  caress"       -        -  279 

Oh,  that  I  were  the  fragrant  flower  that  kisses  279 

Fragment.     On  Rural  Solitude          -        -         -        -  280 

"  In   hollow  music   sighing  through  the 

glade" 28] 

"  Thou  mongrel  who  dost  show  thy  teeth, 

and  yelp" 282 

Ode  to  the  Morning  Star 283 

The  Hermit  of  the  Pacific        .....  284 

Elegy  occasioned  by  the  death  of  Mr,  Gill        -        -  288 

Extemporaneous  Verses    ......  289 


CONTENTS.  VU 

To  Poesy 291 

Fragment.     "  I  have  a  wish,  and  near  my  heart"       -  293 

"  Once  more  his  beagles  wake  the  slum- 
bering morn"         .....                  -  294 

• "  Drear  winter !  who  dost  knock"  -         -  294 

"  Behold  the  Shepherd  boy,  who  homeward 


tends"  .........    296 

"Where  yonder  woods  in  gloomy  pomp 


arise"  .........  297 

-  "To  a  friend"         .....  300 

-  "  With  slow  step,  along  the  desert  sand"  -  300 
-  "  Oh  had  the  soul's  deep  silence  power  to 


speak" 301 

"The   harp   is   still!   Weak  though  the 


spirit  were" 301 

"Or  should  the  day  be  overcast"     -         -     302 

"Mild  Vesper!   favorite  of  the  Paphian 


Queen" 302 

"  In  every  clime  from  Lapland  to  Japan"  303 

Ode  to  Liberty 303 

"Who  is  it  leads  the  planets   on    their 


rfance" 305 

«•  How  beautiful  upon  the  element"  -     307 
"  Ghosts  of  the  dead  in  grim  array"         -     308 


Ode  on  the  death  of  the  Duke  D'Enghien          -         -  309 

Versification  of  the  XXII.  Psalm       -         -        -        -  310 

The  eve  of  Death 312 

Thanatos           .                  313 

Athanatos         ........  315 

•Music 318 

On  being  confined  to  school  one  pleasant  morning  in 

Spring 318 


Vlli  CONTENTS. 

To  Contemplation 319 

Ode  to  the  Harvest  Moon 322 

Song-.  "Softly,  softly  blow,  ye  breezes"  -  -  -324 

The  Shipwrecked  Solitary's  Song  to  the  night  -  -  326 
Sonnet.  "Sweet  to  the  gay  of  heart  is  summer's 

smile" 328 

My  own  Character 329 

Ode  on  Disappointment    ......  331 

Lines  written  in  Wilford  Church  yard  on  recovery 

from  sickness        .......  334 

FRAGMENTS. 

THE   CHRISTIAD     - 338 

"Saw'et  thou  that  light?"  -        .        -        -  355 

"  The  pious  man"        ....  355 

"  Lo  on  the  eastern  summit,  clad  in  gray"  -  356 

"There  was  a  little  bird  upon  that  pile"       -  356 

"  O  pale  art  thou  my  lamp,  and  faint"          -  357 

— — —    "O  give  me  music — for  my  soul  doth  faint"  357 

— — —    "  Ah  !  who  can  say,  however  fair  his  view"  358 

"  And  must  thou  go  and  must  we  part"        -  359 

"  When  I  sit  musing  on  the  checker'd  past"  359 

-  "  When  high  romance  o'er  every  wood  and 
stream"         --..._.-  360 

"  Hushed  is  the  lyre — the  hand  that  swept"  360 

"  Once  more  and  yet  once  more"          -        .  361 

TIME 362 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 

No  1 385 

Noll.      -  389 

No  III 395 

No  IV. 403 

NoV.  .  409 


CONTENTS. 


No  VI  

417 

No  VII  

423 

No  VIII.  - 

423 

No  IX  

436 

NoX  

No  XL 

447 

.    451 

No  XII 455 

TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 

Lines  by  Lord  Byron  inserted  in  "Introduction"        -  24 

To  the  memory  of  H.  Kirke  White.     By  a  Jady         -  465 

Stanzas  written  at  the  grave  of  H.  Kirke  White         -  468 

Ode  on  the  late  H.  Kirke  White         -        -        -        -  469 
Verses  occasioned  by  the  death  of  H.  Kirke  White  by 

Josiah  Conder 470 

Sonnet  by  Arthur  Owen 473 

Sonnet  in  memory  of  H.  Kirke  White       ...  474 
Reflections  on  reading  the  Life  of  H.  Kirke  White  by 

William  Holloway 474 

On  reading  the  Poem  on  Solitude — Josiah  Conder      -  476 
To  the  memory  of  H.  Kirke  White  by  Rev.  W.  B. 

Collyer,  A.  M. 477 

Verses  written  in  the  Homer  of  Mr.  H.  Kirke  White  479 

On  the  Death  of  H.  Kirke  White  by  T.  Park    -        -  480 


INTRODUCTION. 


IT  is  now  nearly  forty  years  since  HENRY 
KIRKE  WHITE  finished  his  short  course  on 
earth.  To  those  unaccustomed  to  read  the 
providence  of  God  in  all  events,  it  seemed 
a  matter  of  mere  accident  that  his  literary 
"  Remains"  should  be  gathered  up  and  em- 
balmed by  the  hand  of  friendship.  His  race 
was  so  brief,  the  difficulties  which  beset  him, 
and  the  obstacles  in  his  path,  were  so  many 
and  so  great,  that  few  supposed  that  the  in- 
terest which  was  then  awakened  could  be 
permanent.  His  warmest  admirers  claimed 
for  him  only  the  immortality  which  that 
generation, — perhaps  which  a  single  year, 
could  bestow.  And  it  has  been  a  matter  of 
surprise  to  many,  that  these  relics  have  not 
long  since  passed  away  on  the  stream  of 
oblivion.  We  well  remember,  in  the  warm 
days  of  boyhood,  reading  these  volumes,  and 
also  with  feelings  of  undefined  indignation, 
the  cold  criticisms  which  were  poured  upon 


12  INTRODUCTION. 

them  in  this  and  in  their  native  country.  It 
was  predicted,  with  all  the  assurance  and 
wise  gravity  of  Reviews,  that  learning  so 
meagre,  youth  so  raw,  and  fragments  of 
poetry  so  few,  and  so  unfinished,  must  short- 
ly die.  The  writers  of  such  criticisms  have 
passed  away  unknown  and  forgotten,  while 
poor  White  holds  on  his  way  with  a  wing 
untired,  and  a  flight  undepressed.  The  pre- 
dictions of  some  have  failed,  and  the  hopes 
of  others  have  been  more  than  fulfilled,  be- 
cause the  hand  which  was  so  early  withered 
in  death,  struck  two  cords, — neither  of 
which  is  slow  to  vibrate,  or  quick  to  cease 
vibrating.  We  mean  genuine  Poetry,  and 
Evangelical  Piety.  We  shall  have  occasion 
to  illustrate  this  remark  hereafter. 

Another  thing  that  makes  and  will  con- 
tinue to  make  White  a  favourite,  is,  that 
youth  must  ever  be  pleased  with  what  youth 
writes.  The  old  man  retires  into  the  cham- 
bers of  his  own  thoughts,  and  there,  in  re- 
calling the  past,  in  building  again  air-castles 
which  have  been  retouched  a  thousand  times, 
in  living  over  the  fresh  days  of  his  youth,  or, 
if  he  has  wisely  sought  and  found  the  great 
object  for  which  he  was  created,  in  looking 
forward  to  the  time  when  he  shall  realize  the 


we  h 
him, 

^fet      at  the 
^^  matte 
^taouth 
^»5toun 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

promises  of  hope,  —  in  these  he  finds  his  en- 
joyment. But  the  morning  upon  the  hills, 
the  sweet  glories  of  the  evening,  the  lonely. 
water-fall,  the  dark  ravine,  the  rugged  moun- 
tain, and  the  wild  lake  of  the  woods,  will 
ever  give  delight  to  youth.  There  is  a  pe- 
riod when  these  are  the  natural  enjoyment 
of  youth,  as  really  and  as  certainly,  as  are 
the  bounding  leap,  the  fresh  smile,  and  the 
joyous  laugh.  So  in  the  taste  for  reading, 
for  thought  and  meditation,  there  are  different 
standards  at  different  periods  of  life.  We 
would  not  ask  the  man  of  sixty  to  sit  down 
and  read  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  expect  him 
to  be  as  much  interested  as  his  little  Ben- 
jamin who  has  been  all  day  poring  over  it 
with  an  interest  so  deep  that  time  and  food 
have  been  alike  forgotten.  We  do  not  ex- 
pect the  man  of  fifty  to  admire  Henry  Kirke 
White  as  does  his  son  of  eighteen  ;  and  when 
we  hear  any  one  speak  disparagingly  of 
him,  we  are  sure  that  he  did  not  read  him 
at  the  right  age.  There  is  a  something,  —  no 
matter  what  we  call  it,  in  the  writing  of 
which  will  ever  be  popular  with  the 
WG  think  therefore,  that  the  mourn- 
ful question  which  Henry  in  his  ambition 
asked  —  "  fifty  years  hence,  and  who  will  think 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

of  Henry  ?" — may  be  answered,  that  multi- 
tudes will ;  and  at  this  moment  he  stands 
more  sure  of  the  immortality  for  which  he  so 
ardently  sighed,  than  ever  before. 

What  man  who  has  passed  through  the 
different  stages  of  life,  does  not  know  that 
there  are  periods  in  which  a  peculiar  kind 
of  reading  is  most  agreeable  ?  There  is, 
for  example,  the  period  for  Magazines,  when 
they  are  devoured  with  eagerness,  and  when 
it  seems  as  if  we  could  not  subsist  without 
new  and  constant  supplies  of  this  food,  and 
rather  than  not  have  it,  we  are  willing  to 
swallow  much  that  is  unleavened,  much  that 
is  unkneaded,  and  much  that  is  unbaked. 
When  we  have  passed  through  this  period, 
we  prefer  reading  of  a  graver  cast,  more  un- 
diluted and  are  well  content  to  substitute 
close,  original  thought  for  the  raciness  or 
the  flippancy  of  modern  composition.  Yet 
the  Magazine  period  is  not  without  its  use. 
We  there  use  the  mind  as  we  would  a  large 
unfinished  chamber,  into  which  we  tumble  all 
kinds  of  wares  and  furniture,  marring,  defa- 
cing, and  breaking  some,  yet  as  a  great  store- 
room out  of  which  we  may  in  after  days  draw 
materials  that  will  be  of  great  service.  If 
the  facts  upon  which  the  eye  then  falls,  must 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

at  once  be  poured  out  of  the  mind  as  Buo- 
naparte used  to  shoot  nails,  all  heads  to 
points,  it  would  be  a  sad  calamity,  and  the 
stores  of  the  mind,  like  the  wild  lands,  on 
which  we  pay  taxes  in  a  new  country,  would 
make  us  poor  in  proportion  to  their  abun- 
dance. 

There  is  also  the  period  of  Novels. 
Would  that  with  some  it  did  not  last  through 
life !  With  what  greediness  and  insatiable 
appetite  does  the  votary  pore  over  the  va- 
pid page  !  Through  what  monstrous  swamps 
does  he  wade,  what  dry  hills  does  he  climb, 
ever  following  a  phantom  and  yet  never 
satisfied  that  he  is  chasing  shadows !  And 
it  is  well  that  to  most  people,  if  age  does  not 
bring  wisdom,  it  brings  an  altered  taste,  and 
if  the  more  wholesome  appetite  comes  too 
late  to  allow  them  to  pluck  and  feed  on  the 
fruit  of  wisdom,  it  comes  in  season  to  give 
bitter  repentance  for  having  wasted  what 
was  too  precious  to  be  lost. 

There  is  also  in  the  life  of  almost  every 
man,  a  period  when  he  reads  and  loves  and 
quotes  poetry.  At  first  all  that  comes  within 
his  reach  is  food,  but  as  he  advances,  his  taste 
leads  him  to  select  with  greater  care  and  ad- 
mit but  little  as  worthy  of  his  lasting  ad- 


16 


INTRODUCTION. 


miration.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  poetry 
is  not  read  more  through  life,  especially  by 
professional  men.  Poetry  is  a  child  of  the 
skies.  Non  tetigit  quod  non  ornavit.  The 
appropriate  quotation  is  not  the  only  thing 
that  is  beautiful.  The  mind  through  which 
poetry  passes,  like  the  clear  channel  in  which 
the  mountain  brook  runs,  seems  to  be  beau- 
tified by  the  waters  that  pass  through  it. 
The  young  then  in  admitting  and  cultivating 
a  taste  for  poetry,  are  becoming  their  own 
benefactors,  and  they  are  putting  the  soul 
under  the  guidance  of  a  teacher,  whose 
voice  will  ever  be  as  sweet  as  the  silver 
trumpet,  and  whose  robes  like  those  of  the 
angel,  will  reflect  the  purity  and  drop  the 
odors  of  heaven.  It  is  not  the  rhythm,  the 
cadence,  the  measure,  nor  the  chosen  words 
that  thrill  us,  in  the  quotation  of  appropriate 
poetry,  but  it  is,  that  we  seem  to  be  surroun- 
ded by  a  new  light, — that  in  which  the  soul 
of  the  poet  was  constantly  bathed.  The 
glories  of  the  rain-bow  light  are  not  pro- 
bably, best  adapted  to  our  daily  wants,  else 
had  our  bountiful  Father  thrown  them  over 
the  whole  creation,  and  every  object  that 
meets  the  eye  had  been  thus  gorgeously 
painted,  yet  who  does  not  feel  that  he  has 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

known  a  pleasure  indescribable,  whenever 
he  has  seen  them. 

White  too,  will  be  read,  because  there 
will  ever  be  a  tender  set  of  recollections 
grouped  around  his  name.  He  has  given  us 
only  a  few  drops  of  the  first  gushings  of 
the  vine.  Goethe  the  poet  of  Germany,  at 
the  age  of  seventy  or  even  eighty  was  great, 
and  could  pour  forth  song  like  a  river  im- 
measurably strong  and  deep  and  grand.  Or 
to  change  the  figure  he  stood  like  a  tree, 
from  which  fruit,  mature,  large  and  delicious, 
dropped  with  wonderful  profusion,  but  does 
this  fact  destroy  the  taste  for  that  which 
grows  upon  the  young  tree, — too  young  to 
give  any  more  than  an  earnest  of  what  it 
may  do.  We  admire  the  efforts  of  mature 
and  trained  genius,  and  feel  that  they  have 
a  claim  upon  our  admiration.  Perhaps  wre 
are  in  danger  of  witholding  somewhat,  lest 
we  pay  that  homage  to  labor  and  art,  which 
we  intend  for  genius,  but  in  the  case  of  the 
youthful  bard,  we  have  no  such  fears,  and 
we  therefore  delight  to  bestow  our  unaffect- 
ed admiration  on  what  we  know  must  be  the 
result  of  great  talents,  and  these  alone. 
The  young  poet  on  whom  we  are  comment- 
ing, like  a  youthful  orator,  has  our  sympa- 


18  INTRODUCTION. 

thies  strongly  enlisted  in  his  favor,  from  the 
first  moment  of  our  acquaintance,  and  this 
surrender  of  sympathy  grows  more  and  more 
unreserved,  so  long  as  we  cultivate  it.  There 
is  a  grace  which  mantles  youth,  which  con- 
ceals defects,  and  magnifies  excellencies. 
The  few  who  become  renowned  on  earth, 
have  for  the  most  part,  some  external  cir- 
cumstances working  in  their  favor,  without 
which,  apparently,  they  would  have  been  un- 
known. The  errors  and  sins  of  the  popes, 
were  the  strange  inheritance,  by  which  Mar- 
tin Luther  became  renowned.  The  French 
Revolution,  with  all  its  horrors  and  atrocities, 
had  to  pass  away,  and  the  nation  drunken 
and  reeling  with  its  own  blood,  was  glad  to 
give  away  all  her  liberties  to  Buonaparte, 
provided  he  could  restrain  her  from  destroy- 
ing herself.  It  was  this  that  made  him. 
And  even  our  own  Washington  might  have 
cultivated  his  farm,  and  measured  the  land 
of  his  neighbours,  unknown  to  posterity, 
had  not  the  American  Revolution  called  out 
his  character,  and  reflected  his  greatness 
upon  the  world.  While  we  allow  that  such 
men  controlled  and  guided  the  circumstances 
which  surrounded  them,  we  cannot  but  feel 
that  it  is  to  these  circumstances  in  a  great 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

degree,  that  they  owe  their  celebrity.  But 
when  a  mind  comes  forth  from  the  deepest 
obscurity,  with  every  circumstance  untow- 
ard, and  against  it,  without  one  thing  to  aid 
it  in  coming  into  notice  and  yet  breaking 
through  all  this,  and  by  its  own  inborn  en- 
ergy, and  its  own  unaided  power,  rising  up 
and  compelling  notice  and  throwing  off  the 
difficulties  which  destroy  most  men,  as  the 
war-horse  would  throw  off  his  market  bur- 
dens,— we  cheerfully  bestow  our  admiration 
and  applause. 

It  was  thus  with  Henry  Kirke  White. 
There  was  humanly  speaking  no  one  cir- 
cumstance which  did  not  seem  to  say,  that 
he  must  live  and  die  in  obscurity  and  un- 
known. His  father  was  a  butcher,  and  des- 
tined his  son  to  the  same  occupation,  and  ac- 
tually had  him  carry  the  butcher's  basket 
from  door  to  door  in  his  boyhood.  In  his 
school  days,  his  instructors  gave  his  parents 
the  comforting  assurance  that  their  son  was 
a  dunce,  whose  only  renown  could  be  that 
of  being  the  greatest  block-head  in  their 
school.  His  destiny  was  then  changed  and 
he  was  doomed  to  be  apprenticed  to  a  stock- 
ing weaver,  as  the  occupation  of  his  life. 
But  before  this,  when  a  mere  child,  he  had 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

crept  unperceived  into  the  kitchen  and 
taught  the  servants  to  read,  had  lampooned 
his  teachers,  probably  with  no  measured 
severity,  and  had  gathered  some  few  flowers, 
from  the  hill  of  Parnassus  which,  to-day,  are 
as  green  as  on  the  day  of  his  plucking  them. 
Born  and  educated  amid  poverty,  in  low 
life,  with  not  one  about  him  who  could  un- 
derstand or  appreciate  his  character,  with 
no  hand  to  lift  him  up,  and  no  voice  which 
could  call  attention  to  him,  he  has  chal- 
lenged, and  has  received  the  decision  that 
his  name  shall  stand  on  the  roll  of  immor- 
tality. And  if  his  life  might  be  embodied 
in  a  single  emblem,  perhaps  it  should  be 
that  of  a  young  lion,  with  an  eye  that  glows 
and  flashes  fire,  while  he  is  bound  with  ivy 
and  is  led  by  the  hand  of  one  of  the  Graces. 
That  must  be  one  of  God's  own  and  bright- 
est stars,  which  can  send  its  light  'down 
through  the  fogs  and  the  damps  which  shut 
up  all  others,  while  to  this,  men  involuntarily 
turn  their  eyes.  Such  a  star  was  Henry, 
and  our  chief  regret  is,  that  an  inscrutable 
Providence  saw  fit  to  allow  it  to  do  no 
more  than  hang  for  a  short  time  in  the  ho- 
rizon. There  must  be  original  greatness  in 
the  mind  that  can  thus  come  into  notice, 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

with  no  one  circumstance  in  its  favor,  but 
the  reverse,  and  it  is  impossible  but  these 
struggles  and  this  victory  over  difficulties 
should  embalm  his  name  as  one  that  is 
sacred. 

He  was  born  a  Poet.  Before  he  was  six 
years  old,  he  used  to  hang  upon  the  lips  of 
a  poor  damsel,  whose  attractions  consisted 
in  her  being  able  to  sing  the  simple  ballad 
of  the  Babes  in  the  Wood.  While  a  mere 
boy  he  beautifully  commemorates  the  cir- 
cumstance. 

"  Many's  the  time  I've  scampered  down  the  glade, 
To  ask  the  promised  ditty  from  the  maid, 
Which  well  she  loved  and  well  she  knew  to  sing, 
While  we  around  her  formed  a  little  ring : 
She  told  of  innocence  foredoomed  to  bleed, 
Of  wicked  guardians  bent  on  bloody  deed, 
Of  little  children  murdered  as  they  slept ; 
While  at  each  pause  we  wrung  our  hands  and 
wept." 

*  *  %  *  * 

"  Beloved  moment !  then  'twas  first  I  caught 
The  first  foundation  of  romantic  thought," 
***** 
«  Then  first  that  poesy  charmed  mine  infant  ear; 
I  hied  me  to  the  thick  o'er-arching  shade,"  etc.  etc. 

It  is  not  strange  that  childhood's  heart 
should  be  touched  by  these  ditties.    It  seems 


22  INTRODUCTION. 

that  they  all  formed  a  ring  round  the  maid, 
and  all  wrung  their  little  hands  and  wept, 
but  there  was  only  one  among  them,  who 
went  alone  away  to  the  "  o'er-arching  shade" 
to  meditate  and  give  his  soul  up  to  emotion. 
None  but  one  born  a  poet  would  at  that 
early  age  do  that. 

Another  instance.  From  the  age  of  six 
to  twelve  he  was  at  school,  and  used  to  take 
frequent  walks  with  a  playmate.  In  de- 
scribing these  walks,  he  says  it  was  one  of 
their  amusements, 

"  To  gaze  upon  the  clouds,  whose  colour'd  pride 
Was  scatter'd  thinly  o'er  the  welkin  wide, 
And  tinged  with  such  variety  of  shade, 
To  the  charm'd  soul  sublimest  thoughts  conveyed. 
In  these  what  forms  romantic  did  we  trace, 
While  fancy  led  us  o'er  the  realms  of  space  ! 
Now  we  espied  the  Thunderer  in  his  car, 
Leading  the  embattled  Seraphim  to  war  ; 
Then  stately  towers  descried,  sublimely  high, 
In  Gothic  grandeur  frowning  on  the  sky ; 
Or  saw,  wide-stretching  o'er  the  azure  height, 
A  ridge  of  glaciers  dressed  in  mural  white, 
Hugely  terrific :" 

What  child  between  the  ages  of  six  and 
twelve,  has  not  gazed  upon  the  glorious 
summer  clouds,  and  seen  them  in  all  manner 
of  fantastic  shapes,  representing  almost 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

every  conceivable  thing  ?  But  how  few  are 
the  children  of  this  age,  even  if  they  were 
fresh  from  reading  Milton,  would  have 
enough  of  the  Poet  about  them  to  see  what 
White  saw 

«  The  Thunderer  in  his  car, 
Leading  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war !" 

These  are  the  emotions  of  the  true  poet, 
the  eyes,  as  well  as  the  power  to  describe 
what  the  eyes  saw. 

It  was  at  this  very  time  that  his  wise 
teachers  pronounced  him  a  blockhead  be- 
cause they  knew  not  how  to  teach,  and  it 
was  during  these  six  years  that  the  poor  boy 
had  another  trial  which  must  have  tended 
to  wither  his  genius,  as  "  one  whole  day  in 
the  week  and  his  leisure  hours  on  other  days, 
were  employed  in  carrying  the  butcher's 
basket,"  his  father  being  determined  to  bring 
him  up  to  his  own  trade !  What  indications 
of  genius  his  lampoons  on  his  stupid  teach- 
ers would  have  afforded,  we  cannot  know. 
Henry  chiefly  destroyed  them  himself.  But 
as  panegyric  is  always  dull  poetry,  (sad 
comment  on  human  nature !)  and  as  satire 
is  always  the  liveliest  of  which  the  author 


24  INTRODUCTION. 

is  capable,  it  is  most  probable  that  his  whip 
would  not  have  lacked  a  snapper. 

As  we  are  speaking  of  Henry's  claim  to 
his  popularity  because  he  is  a  genuine  poet, 
we  may  here  introduce  the  testimony  of  one 
who  will  not  be  suspected  of  partiality.  It 
is  the  unsought  and  unexpected  testimony 
of  Byron,  given  in  the  days  before  his  atra- 
bilious feelings  led  him  to  shun  and  trample 
on  all  that  was  virtuous — we  had  almost 
said,  all  that  was  decent.  The  heart  which 
dictated  this  beautiful  eulogy,  had  not  then 
been  the  parent  of  such  a  monster  as  Don 
Juan. 

«  Unhappy  White  !  while  life  was  in  its  spring, 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  came ;  and,  all  thy  promise  fair, 
Has  sought  the  grave,  to  sleep  forever  there. 
Oh  !  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 
When  Science  self  destroy'd  her  favourite  son  ! 
Yes,  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit, 
She  sovv'd  the  seeds,  but  Death  has  reap'd  the  fruit. 
'Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 
And  help'd  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee 

low : 

So  the  struck  eagle,  stretch'd  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
View'd  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 
And  winged  the  shaft  that  quiver'd  in  his  heart 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel, 
He  nursed  the  pinion  which  impell'd  the  steel ; 
While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warm'd  his  nest, 
Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast." 

We  are  fully  aware  that  poetry  is  some- 
thing to  be  enjoyed,  rather  than  described. 
Like  those  exquisite  essences  which  the 
French  chemist  prepares, — indescribably 
fragrant  when  properly  used,  but  which 
evaporate  by  examining,  or  even  handling. 
And  yet  we  may  take  occasion  to  make  one 
or  two  quotations  which  seem  to  us  to 
evince  the  fact,  that  the  Muses  were  present 
even  from  Henry's  natal  hour.  We  sup- 
pose that  the  brightest  specimens  of  poetry 
must,  from  the  very  nature  of  things,  be 
bordering  on  the  obscure;  that  the  Muse 
must  take  her  flight  midway  between  the 
visible  and  the  invisible  world, — so  that  she 
can  dimly  look  into  the  latter,  and  then  cull 
from  the  vocabulary  of  earth  to  find  lan- 
guage with  which  to  describe  what  she  has 
seen.  The  following  is  a  specimen  of  what 
we  mean,  and  shows  that  White  was  a  poet 
by  nature.  Common  minds  cannot  soar 
like  this,  or  if  they  can,  they  cannot  stop  on 
the  very  pinnacle  of  the  mountain  and  there 

go  out  of  sight. 

3 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

"  Once  more,  and  yet  once  more, 

I  give  unto  my  harp  a  dark-woven  lay ; 
I  heard  the  waters  roar, 

I  heard  the  flood  of  ages  pass  away. 
0  thou,  stern  spirit,  who  dost  dwell 

In  thine  eternal  cell, 
Noting,  gray  chronicler  !  the  silent  years ; 

I  saw  thee  rise, — I  saw  the  scroll  complete, 

Thou  spakest,  and  at  thy  feet 
The  universe  gave  way." 

A  single  piece  of  a  bone,  will  show  that 
the  creature  of  which  it  is  a  mere  fragment, 
was  a  mammoth ;  and  a  single  specimen 
of  ore  from  a  mine  shows  how  rich  is  the 
bed  from  which  it  was  dug.  This  single 
fragment  shows  that  it  came  from  a  mine, 
which,  if  not  inexhaustible,  is  of  the  richest 
quality. 

For  some  time  previous  to  his  death, 
Henry  gave  himself  wholly  to  severe  studies, 
and  with  such  intensity  of  application,  that 
his  life  was  the  forfeit.  After  his  death 
there  were  found  two  stanzas  of  poetry  writ- 
ten on  the  back  of  his  mathematical  papers, 
which  for  tender  pathos,  are  seldom  equalled. 
They  'are  probably  the  last  that  his  gifted 
mind  ever  produced.  We  shall  be  greatly 
mistaken  if  the  reader  shall  regret  that  we 
quote  them  here,  as  one  of  the  evidences 


INTRODUCTION.  27 

that  White  was  a  Poet.     It  was  probably  a 
part  of  his  poem  on  Time. 

"  Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme 

With  self-rewarding  toil,  thus  far  have  sung 
Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 
The  lyre  which  1  in  early  days  have  strung  ; 
And  now  my  spirits  faint,  and  I  have  hung 
The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour, 
On  the  dark  cypress  !  and  the  strings  which 

rung 

With  Jesus'  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o'er, 
Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are 
heard  no  more. 

"  And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  re-animate  the  lay  ? 
Oh  !  thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men, 

Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray, 

One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day  ! 
One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree  ! 

I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way, 
And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee, 
Ere  I  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I 
am  free." 


This  affecting  prayer  of  the 
traveller"  was  answered,  as  God  fruent- 
ly  answers  prayer  —  not  by  giving  the  pre- 
cise thing  for  which  in  our  darkness  we  ask. 
He  entreated  for  life,  in.  which  he  might 


28  INTRODUCTION. 

serve  his  Redeemer :  he  received  immortality 
in  which  he  might  be  satisfied  in  the  image 
of  that  Savior. 

At  the  time  when  these  lines  were  penned, 
the  young  Poet  was  surrounded  by  a  host 
of  admirers,  who  were  goading  him  on  in 
his  studies,  and  with  a  frail  body  sinking 
under  the  pressure.  He  died  a  martyr  to 
study :  and  while  his  friends  were  rejoicing 
that  no  honors  were  beyond  his  reach,  and 
while  his  soul  was  of  that  order  which  even 
Death  could  not  subdue,  though  it  might 
crush  the  house  in  which  it  dwelt,  and 
while  his  pure  heart  was  panting  only  to  be 
qualified  for  the  holy  functions  of  the  min- 
istry of  the  Gospel,  he  sank  suddenly  and 
quickly  away,  and  was  laid  in  the  grave  at 
the  early  age  of  about  twenty-one.  What 
expectations  were  cut  off  by  this  mysterious 
dispensation!  But  he  lived  to  write  that 
which  will  give  him  no  mean  place  in  the 
Temple  of  Fame  as  a  Poet;  and  this  is  one 
reason  why  he  has  continued  to  live  in  spite 
of  the  predictions  of  those  who  were  so 
confiolnt  and  decided,  that  they  felt  it  ne- 
cessary to  try  hard  to  render  their  pro- 
phesyings  true. 

The  other  thing,  in  addition  to  poetical 


INTRODUCTION.  29 

powers,  which  has  made  Henry  a  favorite, 
and  to  which  allusion  has  already  been 
made,  is,  that  he  had  evangelical  piety. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  one  thing,  excepting 
the  horrors  of  the  death-bed  of  the  guilty, 
which  is  so  gloomy  in  contemplation,  as  to 
witness  the  perversion  of  high  powers  of 
mind.  When  the  traveller  follows  the  mag- 
nificent St.  Lawrence  up  towards  those 
wonders, — the  Falls,  his  soul  is  elevated  at 
the  thought  that  he  is  on  the  bosom  of  the 
river  which  empties  half  the  waters  of  the 
globe ;  but  when,  in  a  clear  soft  moonlight 
evening,  he  finds  the  floating  palace  on 
which  he  treads,  winding  her  way  among 
the  "Thousand  Isles"  which  stud  these 
beautiful  waters,  he  feels  that  it  is  indeed  a 
fairy  land :  it  is  living  poetry :  it  is  consoli- 
dated romance, — and  he  retires  to  a  lone 
part  of  the  boat,  that  he  may  give  himself 
up  to  emotions  which  are  unutterable.  He 
wants  no  one  to  break  the  charm  by  ex- 
claiming "how  beautiful."  Nothing  ever 
conceived  as  belonging  to  earth  can  be  com- 
pared to  it, — and  he  cannot  share  hys  emo- 
tions with  others.  Now  let  these  same  Isles 
lie  just  as  they  now  do,  with  the  same  soft 
moon  hanging  over  them  and  the  same 


SO  INTRODUCTION. 

emerald  waters  flowing  past  them,  and  yet 
let  them  be  occupied  by  banditti  and  refu- 
gees. Let  the  passengers  and  officers  of 
the  boat  be  on  the  lookout,  expecting  that 
outcasts  will  start  out  from  behind  every 
clump  of  trees,  or  will  fire  upon  them  from 
behind  every  rock.  How  different  are  the 
emotions  now !  How  different  is  that  whole 
river,  that  veil  of  moonlight  and  these  gems 
on  the  waters ! 

Such  are  the  different  feelings  with  which 
we  regard  a  mind  full  of  poetry,  full  of 
emotion,  full  of  the  beautiful,  the  sublime 
and  the  great.  If  that  mind  with  its  powers 
and  faculties  and  attainments  be  consecra- 
ted to  religion  and  to  God,  we  admire  it  as 
we  do  the  islands  as  first  described.  We 
give  our  souls  up  to  it  without  reserve,  with 
a  delight  unmixed  and  with  a  confidence  un- 
restrained. Such  was  the  mind  of  Henry 
Kirke  White. 

But  when  those  glorious  attributes  of 
mind  are  given  up  to  sin,  filled  with  images 
of  pollution,  and  crime,  and  death,  we  feel 
that  the  banditti  and  the  refugees  have  come 
and  turned  our  paradise  into  hell.  The 
pure  temple  of  Parian  marble  becomes  a 
charnel  house.  The  thousand-leaved  rose 


INTRODUCTION.  31 

emits   its  fragrance    only   to  conceaj    its 
poison. 

Such  was  Thomas  Dermody — a  youthful 
poet  who  died  about  the  time  that  Henry 
died.  With  powers  of  mind  and  with  po- 
etical talent  inferior,  we  had  almost  said  to 
none,  with  friends  admiring  and  urging  him 
on,  and  a  nation  ready  to  applaud  him,  he 
prostituted  all  that  he  had,  or  might  have 
had,  to  sin,  to  passion,  and  to  death.  He 
wore  out  his  friends,  all  save  one,  who  dis- 
graced himself  by  writing  his  Memoirs,  and 
went  down  to  the  grave  six  years  older  than 
White,  unlamented,  unpraised,  and  forgot- 
-ten.  His  memory  perished  with  his  ruined 
body.  Perhaps  few,  if  any  of  our  readers 
ever  heard  of  his  name  before.  And  yet  if 
his  heart  had  been  sanctified  by  piety,  and 
his  powers  consecrated  to  God,  we  have  no 
reason  to  doubt,  that  he  would  have  shared 
in  the  love  and  respect  which  are  so  freely 
given  to  White.  We  do  not  now  mention 
his  name  to  honor  it,  any  more  than  the 
anatomist  shows  the  scull  of  the  felon  to 
excite  admiration.  The  mind  recurs  to 
Dermody  because  his  circumstances  were 
similar,  and  his  powers  of  mind  probably  not 
inferior,  to  those  of  White — and  because 


32  INTRODTJCTIOW. 

the  jate  which  awaited  his  memory  has 
been  so  very  different.  Seldom  are  we 
called  to  witness  a  more  striking  illustration 
of  the  promise,  "  them  that  honor  me  I  will 
honor  saith  the  Lord."  How  sure  is  the 
worm  to  destroy  every  plant  which  God  has 
not  planted !  How  sure  is  the  fate  of  those 
who  prostitute  their  powers  to  sin,  to  be 
doomed  to  oblivion.  Or  if  their  names  are 
preserved,  they  are  preserved  as  the  bodies 
of  criminals,  which  are  hung  up  in  chains, 
that  the  passers-by  may  behold  and  shudder. 
A  few,  may  for  a  short  time,  admire  those 
who  are  great  in  wickedness ;  but  the  hum- 
ble one,  who  pours  the  ointment  on  the  feet 
of  Jesus,  shall  have  it  told  of  her  for  a  me- 
morial, that  God  will  honor  those  who  honor 
him  through  all  time,  and  through  all  the 
world !  Blessed  memorial !  And  why  will 
those,  who  pant  after  fame,  and  desire  as 
the  ruling  passion  of  the  soul,  to  live  in  the 
memory  of  men,  why  will  they  make  war 
upon  this  unalterable  law  of  God  ? 

We  have  heard,  we  know  not  how  many 
times — the  sweet  hymns  of  White  sung  by 
those  whose  esteem  and  love  is  indeed  fame. 
How  would  that  youth  have  felt  could  he 
have  known,  that  when  he  had  been  in  his 


INTRODUCTION.  33 

grave  nearly  forty  years,  it  could  be  said, 
that  not  a  week,  probably  not  a  day  passes, 
in  which  some  one  or  more  of  his  sweet 
Hymns  is  not  sung  to  the  music  of  Zion, 
and  by  those  who  are  following  him  to  the 
land  of  unclouded  day !  In  the  forest,  on 
the  mountain-side,  and  in  the  great  city,  we 
have  multitudes  of  times  united  in  the  song, 
"  The  Star  of  Bethlehem," 

«  When  marshall'd  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky,"  etc. 

The  following  Hymn  we  deem  one  of  the 
best  in  the  English  language,  and  when  sung 
to  simple  music,  it  is  impossible  for  the 
heart  not  to  have  emotions  of  awe,  and  sub- 
limity, if  not  of  devotion. 

"  The  Lord  our  God  is  clothed  with  might, 

The  winds  obey  his  will, 
He  speaks,  and  in  his  heavenly  height 

The  rolling  sun  stands  still. 

"  Rebel  ye  waves  and  o'er  the  land 

With  threatening  aspect  roar ; 
The  Lord  uplifts  his  awful  hand 

And  chains  you  to  the  shore. 

u  Howl  winds  of  night !  your  force  combine ; 
Without  his  high  behest, 


34  INTRODUCTION. 

Ye  shall  not  in  the  mountain  pine 
Disturb  the  sparrow's  nest. 

"  His  voice  sublime  is  heard  afar, 

In  distant  peals  it  dies, 
He  yokes  the  whirlwind  to  his  car, 

And  sweeps  the  howling  skies. 

"Ye  nations  bend — in  reverence  bend; 

Ye  monarchs  wait  his  nod, 
And  bid  the  choral  song  ascend 

To  celebrate  our  God." 

White  seems  not  to  have  had,  what  we 
in  this  country  call,  a  religious  education. 
As  soon,  therefore,  as  he  became  conscious 
of  his  superiority  of  intellect,  he  felt  wise 
enough  to  be  a  Deist.  Some  pious  friend, 
who  well  understood  his  case,  put  "  Scott's 
Force  of  Truth"  into  his  hands.  He  receiv- 
ed it  with  cold  indifference,  and  promised  to 
answer  it ;  but  when  he  came  to  read  it,  he 
found  that  in  it  which  no  infidel  can  begin 
to  answer;  viz,  the  enlightened  experience 
of  a  Christian.  It  is  this  experience  of  the 
heart  under  the  operation  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 
which  utterly  confounds  men.  Were  it  ar- 
gument alone,  on  which  the  Christian  rests, 
he  might  be  met  and  vanquished  by  argu- 
ment. Were  it  on  the  reveries  of  imagi- 


INTRODUCTION.  35 

nation  alone,  he  might  be  laughed  out  of  it. 
Were  it  only  on  a  dream  of  an  hour  of  en- 
thusiasm, he  might  be  awaked  when  the 
hour  of  sober  thinking  should  come.  But 
who  can  meet  experience— that  which  is  a 
part  of  consciousness,  and  which  abides 
through  life — with  argument  or  ridicule? 
Henry  read  the  book ;  and,  on  returning  it, 
said,  "  that,  to  answer  that  book,  was  out 
of  his  power,  and  out  of  any  man's,  for  it 
was  founded  upon  eternal  truth  j  that  it  had 
convinced  him  of  his  error,  and  so  tho- 
roughly was  he  impressed  with  a  sense  of 
the  importance  of  his  Maker's  favor,  that 
he  would  willingly  give  up  all  acquisitions 
of  knowledge  and  all  hopes  of  fame,  and 
live  in  a  wilderness  unknown  till  death,  so 
that  he  could  insure  an  inheritance  in  Hea- 
ven." To  the  clergyman  who  had  put  this 
little  volume  into  his  hands,  he  afterwards 
said,  that,  when  he  found  that  the  Scrip- 
tures demanded  purity  of 'thought  and  feeling, 
as  well  as  pure  outward  conduct,  he  could 
find  no  comfort  in  his  penitence,  till  he  fled 
to  the  atonement  for  sin,  which  was  made 
through  the  blood  of  the  everlasting  Re- 
deemer. To  this  unfailing  refuge  he  fled, 
and  the  desire  to  become  like  him  grew  upon 


36  INTRODUCTION. 

him  till  he  was  called  home  to  his  presence. 
His  biographer  held  different  views  from 
Henry  as  to  the  depravity  of  the  heart  and 
the  great  doctrines  of  evangelical  religion  ; 
yet  he  bears  this  noble  testimony :  that  the 
piety  of  Henry  "  was  in  him  a  living  and 
quickening  principle  of  goodness,  which 
sanctified  all  his  hopes  and  all  his  affec- 
tions, which  made  him  keep  watch  over  his 
own  heart,  and  enabled  him  to  correct  the 
few  symptoms  which  it  ever  displayed  of 
human  imperfection."  However  few  may 
have  been  the  outward  "  symptoms  of  hu- 
man imperfection,"  which  his  heart  dis- 
pla^ed,  we  have  no  doubt  that  his  was  like 
all  other  hearts,  depraved  and  unholy ;  and 
we  esteem  the  conversion  of  a  heart  so  vain 
and  so  elated  with  a  consciousness  of  ta- 
lent, as  his  must  have  been,  one  of  the  tro- 
phies of  the  grace  of  God.  It  is  an  in- 
stance of  the  high  look  and  the  lofty  imagina- 
tion being  brought  into  the  obedience  of  the 
faith  in  Christ  Jesus;  and  to  eternity  will  his 
glorified  spirit  ascribe  all  the  glory  to  the 
sovereign  mercy  of  God  in  Christ  Jesus. 
Who  can  read  his  life  and  not  be  impressed 
with  the  belief  that  he  possessed  a  towering 
pride  and  an  ambition  that  was  boundless  ? 


INTRODUCTION.  37 

And  what  but  supernatural  power  could 
bring  these  down  to  sit  meekly  at  the  feet 
of  Jesus,  and  make  him  feel  that  all  was 
lighter  than  air,  compared  with  the  appro- 
bation of  his  Maker?  There  are  many 
evidences  that  the  piety  of  Henry  was  ge- 
nuine arid  deep.  Among  them,  we  may  no- 
tice that  his  temper,  which  was  naturally 
irritable,  became  placid  and  controllable ; 
that  he  was  uniformly  trying  to  make  others 
happy  by  doing  them  good ;  that  he  was 
unalterably  fixed  in  his  determination  to  de- 
vote his  life  to  the  propagation  of  the  gos- 
pel as  his  highest  aim  and  desire,  though 
his  friends  did  all  in  their  power  to  dissuade 
him;  that  he  was  uniformly  most  conscien- 
tious and  devotional,  till  death  dismissed 
him  from  earth. 

All  wish  to  be  remembered  after  they  are 
in  the  cold  grave ;  all  wish  to  have  an  influ- 
ence that  shall  linger  on  earth,  and  be  felt 
long  after  they  have  passed  away ;  and, 
could  they  know  that  this  influence  would 
increase  for  a  century,  or  even  for  a  thou- 
sand years,  how  would  they  rejoice  !  Who 
would  not  try  hard  to  climb  the  mountain- 
side, if,  when  he  had  reached  the  summit, 
he  could  open  a  fountain  which  would  flow 


38  INTRODUCTION. 

and  carry  fertility  and  blessings  down  to 
the  end  of  time,  and  have  his  name  asso- 
ciated with  that  fountain?  It  is  on  this 
principle  that  men,  who  can  hardly  read 
themselves,  found  schools  and  colleges. 
Perhaps  this  desire  to  speak  after  death  is 
peculiarly  strong  in  the  bosom  of  the  poet. 
By  a  mysterious  law  of  God,  every  son 
and  daughter  of  Adam,  whether  he  be  Alex- 
ander the  conqueror,Buonaparte  the  wonder 
of  modern  times,  or  the  poor  slave  in  the 
mud-built  cottage,  is  to  have  this  influence. 
The  grave  receives  the  body,  but  the  tomb 
does  not  take  ALL  away.  Something  is  left 
to  speak.  Two  youths  may  feed  their 
flocks  on  the  plains  of  Campania,  and  they 
may  quarrel,  though  brothers.  The  more 
savage  may  kill  the  meek  one,  and  this  sa- 
vage character  shall  be  impressed  on  a 
mighty  empire,  and  this  scene  of  violence 
shall  be  the  influence  which  shall  increase 
till  the  spirit  of  Romulus  is  breathed  into 
all  that  mighty  kingdom,  and  Rome  treads 
her  way  over  nations  with  an  iron  heel,  a 
dagger  in  her  hand,  and  the  savageness  of 
murder  in  her  heart.  Had  Remus  stamped 
his  character  upon  the  infant  colony,  who 
can  say  that  shepherds,  instead  of  warriors, 


INTRODUCTION.  39 

had  not  occupied  the  plains  of  Campania  ? 
When  we  look  at  the  influence  which  mind 
must  have  upon  mind,  we  are  almost  ready 
to  shudder  at  one  side  of  the  picture,  while 
we  rejoice  at  the  other.  The  influence 
of  such  a  man  as  RICHARD  BAXTER  upon 
his  own  generation  was  great;  but,  pro- 
bably, not  a  hundredth  part  of  what  it 
has  been  on  every  generation  since.  The 
streams  of  influence,  which  he  began  to 
pour  upon  the  human  mind,  have  been 
widening  and  deepening  ever  since.  The 
number  who  will  be  brought  to  Jesus  Christ 
by  his  pen,  makes  us  feel  as  if  his  voice  had 
been  multiplied  a  thousand  fold,  and  his 
tongue  had  become  the  tongue  of  an  angel. 
And  what  shall  we  say  of  BUNYAN,  the  man 
who  was  the  scorn  and  the  laughing-stock 
of  his  generation,  and  the  admiration  of 
every  generation  that  has  succeeded  ?  His 
beautiful  allegory  will  guide  many  a  pilgrim 
through  the  slough  of  Despond  up  to  the 
city  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  and,  being  dead, 
he  will  influence  to  the  end  of  time.  If 
there,  be  a  joy  purer  than  that  of  the  sinless 
angels,  it  would  seem  to  belong  to  that 
glorified  spirit,  who,  from  the  walls  of  the 
golden  city,  can  look  down  and  see  his  in- 


40  INTRODUCTION. 

fluence  on  earth,  like  an  angel  of  mercy, 
still  bringing  sons  and  daughters  to  the 
Lamb  of  God.  There  may  be  periods  in 
which,  owing  to  some  peculiar  taste  of  the 
age,  such  writers  will  be  almost  forgotten ; 
but  the  next  generation  will  call  them  back 
to  their  place  and  influence.  We  may  not 
doubt,  however,  that  this  influence  is  felt, 
even  when  not  perceived,  just  as  the  moon 
lays  her  unseen  hand  on  the  tides  and  moves 
and  controls  them,  when  she  is  lost  to  us 
and  we  forget  her,  till  the  time  for  her  re- 
turn comes,  when  she  is  welcomed  in  all  her 
brightness,  and  her  influence  is  acknow- 
ledged. And  what  is  worthy  of  note  and 
of  gratitude,  a  single  thought  or  a  single 
paragraph  may  do  wonders  upon  the  heart 
of  man.  Probably  no  tongue  can  estimate 
the  number  of  souls  which  will  be  brought 
back  to  God  indirectly,  in  consequence  of 
the  sweet  eulogy  of  Cowper  upon  the  pulpit, 
commencing  with  the  words : 

«  The  pulpit — and  I  named  it,"  etc.  etc. 

It  will  never  be  known  till  the  great 
day  how  many  feet  have  been  turned  to 
the  house  of  God,  and  how  many  hearts 
have  had  a  reverence  for  the  pulpit  awa- 


INTRODUCTION.  41 

kened  by  that  brief  paragraph.  But  we 
shall  not  be  disappointed,  if  it  shall  be 
found  that  it  has  done  more  good  than 
many  great  volumes  of  divinity,  and  the 
whole  ministry  of  many  really  valuable 
ministers  of  the  gospel.  How  little  did 
Moses  think  that  the  songs  which  his  soul 
poured  out  here,  would  be  sung  even  in 
Heaven ! 

Turn  now  to  the  influence  which  unsanc- 
tified  mind  has  upon  the  world. 

A  wicked  heart  is  frequently  accompa- 
nied by  genius,  which  it  soon  brings  to 
its  own  subjection.  The  man  writes  and  is 
read,  and  becomes  an  acknowledged  author. 
He  spends  years  upon  his  work  ere  it  comes 
from  the  press.  He  brings  the  results  of 
diligence,  of  learning,  and  of  genius,  and 
lays  them  before  the  world.  They  have 
passages  of  undeniable  beauty  and  power, 
and  they  are  popular.  It  is  in  the  power 
of  genius  to  dress  up  the  vilest  highway- 
man, (we  have  Paul  Clifford  in  our  eye,)  so 
that  the  hideousness  of  crime  and  of  blood 
shall  be  covered  up,  and  young  hearts  shall 
sigh  that  they  cannot  be  such  highwaymen, 
or  cannot  marry  such  men.  Alas  !  the  poi- 
son of  the  soul  is  mingled  in  every  stream 


42  INTRODUCTION. 

which  such  a  mind  sends  out,  though  so  art- 
fully covered  up  and  so  skilfully  prepared, 
that  the  young  heart  does  not  perceive  it. 
The  book  goes  out  upon  the  world,  and  a 
demon  sits  among  its  leaves  and  laughs. 
The  press  comes  to  the  aid  of  ruin,  and 
seals  its  perpetuity,  and  insures  its  wide  cir- 
culation, and  the  demon's  laugh  is  echoed 
from  ten  thousand  different  portions  of  the 
earth.  The  author  thus  acquires  an  influ- 
ence, a  deep,  decided  influence,  in  the  world, 
which  will  widen  and  extend  after  he  has 
long  been  an  inhabitant  of  the  eternal  world. 
He  dared  take  the  mind  which  God  gave 
him  for  purposes  so  high  and  noble  that 
eternity  alone  can  fulfil  them,  and  with  it, 
pour  a  living  curse  over  his  species ;  and,  in 
awful  severity,  God  has  decreed  that  the 
curse  shall  flow  and  continue  to  flow  on- 
ward, and  he  shall  be  made  accountable  for 
all  the  mischief  he  thus  does.  Oh !  if  the 
covering  could  be  removed  from  the  dark 
world,  so  that  we  could  see  what  is  now 
concealed,  we  believe  the  human  spirit  might 
there  be  found  who  would  think  the  price 
of  a  world  cheap,  could  he  with  it, purchase 
the  privilege  of  blotting  out  one  of  thoso 
profane  jests  at  the  cross  of  Jesus,  which 


INTRODUCTION.  43 

he  left  on  earth  to  do  the  work  of  death. 
And  there  would  be  found  the  unholy 
genius  who  came  as  an  angel  in  intel- 
lect, and  sung  in  strains  that  an  angel 
might  admire,  but  who  used  his  harp  only 
to  allure  down  to  hell.  What  a  fearful  gift 
the  possession  of  such  an  intellect !  and 
such  a  harp! — a  harp  that  can  entrance 
nations,  open  undiscovered  fountains  in  the 
human  heart,  and  pour  out  its  numbers  fresh 
as  the  morning  dew,  when  other  harps 
would  shatter  by  being  over-strained !  Such 
an  one  has  just  left  its  influence  on  earth. 
Wonderful  being ! 

«  With  Nature's  self 

He  seemed  an  old  acquaintance,  free  to  jest, 
At  will  with  all  her  glorious  majesty. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  '  ocean's  mane,' 
And  played  familiar  with  his  hoary  locks ; 
Stood  on  the  Alps, — stood  on  the  Appenines, 
And  with  the  thunder  talked  as  with  a  friend, 

And  wove  his  garland  of  the  light'ning's  wing. 

***** 

Suns,  moons,  and  stars  and  clouds  his  sisters  were  ; 
Rocks,  mountains,  meteors,  seas,  and  winds  and 

storms, 

His  brothers — younger  brothers,  whom  he  scarce 
As  equals  deemed. 


44  INTRODUCTION. 

On  the  loftiest  top 
Of  Fame's  dread  mountain  sat;  not  soiled  and 

worn, 

As  if  he  from  the  earth  had  labored  up, 
But  as  some  bird  of  heavenly  plumage  fair, 
He  looked,  which  down  from  higher  regions  came, 
And  perched  it  there,  to  see  what  lay  beneath." 

Alas,  we  say  again,  that  it  should  be  so  j 
that  the  lofty  genius,  before  whom  the  spe- 
cies all  bow  in  wonder  and  amazement, 
should  put  out  the  lamp  of  life,  and  cause 
his  own  beacon  to  loom  up,  fiery  and  red, 
amid  the  darkness  which  he  continued  to 
create — a  beacon  whose  only  use  is  to  de- 
coy the  ship,  laden  with  a  cargo  more  pre- 
cious than  rubies,  upon  the  rocks  and  the 
reefs,  that  he  should  revel  in  the  luxury  of 
witnessing  the  awfulness  of  the  wreck !  Oh ! 
if  the  heavens  above,  and  the  caverns  be- 
neath us,  could  be  turned  into  whispering  gal- 
leries, what  ecstacy  of  bliss  and  of  wo  should 
we  hear,  consequent  upon  the  influence  left 
on  earth!  Had  we  the  power  of  the  painter, 
and  were  it  our  object  to  paint  despair, 
we  should  select  the  author  who  prostituted 
his  powers  to  destroy  the  souls  of  men. 
We  would  put  on  him  no  chains ;  he  should 
wear  no  fetters.  He  should  sit  down  alone 


INTRODUCTION.  45 

in  his  agony,  while  at  a  distance  should 
stand  a  multitude  of  all  ages  who  are  point- 
ing to  him  with  curses  and  despair  in  their 
faces.  He  should  see  them,  and  his  very 
countenance  should  seem  to  say — "Ah!  ye 
need  not  point  and  curse.  Ye  are  not  all 
that  I  have  ruined.  There  are  many  more 
to  come  and  hail  me  as  their  marshal  to 
destruction.  I  was  once  witty  and  keen, 
and  could  so  gracefully  thrust  the  spear  into 
the  side  of  Jesus,  that  my  hand  was  hardly 
seen.  But  oh !  my  folly  !  What  would  I 
not  give, could  my  name  and  my  influence 
be  now  swept  from  the  earth  and  the  blight- 
ing curse  cease.  Oh !  that  I  could  now 
shut  down  those  flood-gates  of  death  which 
my  own  right  hand  lifted  up,  and  stay  the 
streams  of  ruin  which  I  caused  to  flow. 
But,  alas !  I  have  been  here  centuries,  and 
yet  I  am  living  and  speaking  and  destroy- 
ing on  the  earth,  and  my  burden  of  guilt 
already  heavier  than  mountains,  is  every 
hour  becoming  heavier  still !"  This  would 
be  Despair. 

We  speak  of  the  simple,  child-like  piety 
of  White  as  almost  a  phenomenon.  It 
must  be  recollected,  that,  in  a  short  mo- 
ment, he  came  from  poverty,  obscurity,  and 


46  INTRODUCTION. 

almost  degradation,  into  notice,  respect, 
and  adulation.  The  fact  that  he  was  a 
master-spirit,  was  fully  made  known  to  him. 
Is  it  easy  for  such  a  mind  to  walk  in  the 
valley  of  humiliation  ?  Some  suppose,  that, 
if  they  could  stand  high  and  aloft  among 
men,  have  distinctions  and  notice,  so  that 
they  could  tower  above  their  species,  they 
should  most  cheerfully  consecrate  it  all  to 
God,  though  they  find  it  hard  to  do  so  with 
the  single  talent.  And  is  a  powerful  intel- 
lect, such  as  can  dive  into  the  mysteries 
and  depths  of  nature,  so  capacious  that  it 
can  grasp  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  fu- 
ture, and  hold  them  out  in  a  new  light, — is 
such  an  intellect  the  thing  that  will  lead 
men  to  humility  and  self-renunciation  ?  No. 
The  intellect  of  the  archangel  might  be  in 
the  possession  of  an  unsanctified  heart,  and 
it  would  be  a  heavy  curse.  Adding  to  the 
possessions  of  such  a  heart  does  not  tend 
to  make  it  better.  Judas  would  rob  his 
master  of  a  few  shillings.  Would  placing 
him  over  the  treasures  of  an  empire  make 
him  an  honest  man  ?  Does  adding  to  the 
wealth  of  a  selfish  heart  render  it  benevo- 
lent? Would  the  gift  of  enviable  and  en- 
vied talents  tend  to  kill  that  pride  which  is 


INTRODUCTION.  47 

now  the  god  which  we  are  so  ready  to 
serve  ?  Increase  the  intellect,  the  powers 
of  the  mind,  exalt  the  mortal  and  make 
him  feel  that  he  has  what  others  admire 
and  covet,  and  you  do  as  much  towards 
bringing  the  soul  down  to  the  foot  of  the 
cross,  as  you  would  towards  reducing  the 
fort  which  already  seems  impregnable,  by 
sending  more  cannon  and  more  powder  and 
ball  into  it.  The  acknowledged  transcend- 
ent powers  of  mind  which  White  possessed, 
were  one  of  the  greatest  obstacles  in  his  way 
of  becoming  an  humble  and  meek  disciple 
of  Christ.  But  all  this  was  brought  down 
by  the  grace  of  God,  and  he  stands  forth  a 
monument  of  the  mercy  and  of  the  power 
of  the  gospel  of  Jesus  Christ. 

How  immeasurably  high  does  the  Poet 
stand  compared  with  others,  who  conse- 
crates his  gifts  to  the  cross  of  Jesus.  We 
speak  not  here  of  the  guilt  of  making  po- 
etry the  vehicle  in  which  the  gifted  mind 
may  carry  the  curses  of  a  blighted  heart, 
and  the  fires  of  passions  kindled  from  the 
pit,  but  we  speak  of  the  advantage  which 
he  has  in  three  important  particulars,  viz. : 
range  of  thought,  immortality  among  men, 
and  the  rewards  of  doing  good.  Suppose  a 


48  INTRODUCTION. 

poet  has  no  piety,  and  he  is  about  to  task 
his  powers  of  mind  to  the  utmost,  what  is 
his  field?  He  may  read  and  study  and 
converse  with  men — travel  and  examine 
cities  and  battle-fields — gather  the  costumes 
and  the  customs  of  all  nations  and  ages  and 
languages  ;  he  may  lay  before  him  the  map 
of  time,  and  at  a  glance  read  all  the  past. 
He  may  then  look  for  imagery,  and  the 
world  is  full  of  it.  Not  a  plant  grows  by 
the  hedge,  but  it  is  full  of  life ;  not  a  flower 
opens  in  his  garden,  but  it  is  pencilled  with 
the  most  exquisite  skill.  He  goes  to  the 
desert  and  to  the  mountain-side,  and  a  hand 
has  already  been  there  to  plant  and  paint 
the  flower  which  smiles  at  his  approach ; 
he  looks  into  the  dark,  deep  lake  of  the 
forest,  and  nimble  swimmers,  all  mottled 
with  gold  and  purple  and  carmine,  are  there 
to  excite  his  wonder  and  admiration ;  he 
looks  into  the  deeper  chambers  of  the 
ocean,  and  there  the  coral  and  the  shell, 
inimitably  beautiful  and  in  unmeasured  pro- 
fusion, astonish  his  inquiring  mind  j  or,  he 
looks  abroad  on  the  surface  of  the  earth,  and 
the  mountains  heave  up  their  huge  rocks  like 
the  skeletons  of  worlds  not  yet  made ;  or 
the  ocean  lifts  its  awful  voice  and  shuts  out 


INTRODUCTION.  49 

the  limits  between  what  is  finite  and  what 
is  infinite ;  or  the  storm  comes  through  the 
forest  like  a  destroying  spirit,  and  sports 
with  what  seems  immoveable,  and  the 
hoarse  voice  of  the  thunder  and  the  bright 
flash  of  its  fire,  are  all  his,  and  he  may  press 
them  all  into  the  service  of  his  song,  and 
make  them  all  sit  at  his  feet  and  tune  their 
harps  at  his  bidding. 

But  these  are  all  finite  in  space,  in  time, 
in  measure,  and,  at  the  very  point  where  the 
sublime  begins,  the  materials  are  exhausted 
and  the  poet  must  stop.  The  soul  can 
never  be  satisfied  with  what  is  finite.  Now, 
at  the  spot  at  which  the  poet  who  rejects 
the  Bible  stops,  because  the  poor  elements 
which  he  handles  pall  upon  him  like  the  toys 
which  children  have  turned  over  until  they 
loathe  them,  the  Christian  poet  starts.  He 
can  use  all  these ;  but  all  these  materials, 
the  hills,  the  mountains,  the  ocean,  the  pla- 
nets, and  the  heavens,  all  that  the  eye  sees, 
are  only  images  of  what  is  yet  to  be  seen — 
the  mere  scaffolding  of  the  building,  which 
is  yet  to  be  reared.  What  poem  could 
Milton  have  produced,  had  he  been  confined 
to  all  that  God  has  revealed  through  his 
works,  provided  he  must  shut  out  the  Bible  ? 


50  INTRODUCTION. 

As  to  materials,  then,  the  Christian  poet 
stands  on  ground  as  much  superior  to  the 
poet  of  this  world  as  spirit  is  superior  to 
matter,  as  the  infinite  is  greater  than  the 
finite,  and  as  eternity  is  greater  than  time. 
Then,  as  to  fame.  The  gospel  carries 
light  in  its  path.  It  will  not  long  have  dis- 
ciples who  cannot  read  and  reflect;  who 
are  not  intelligent,  virtuous,  and  rising  in 
the  scale  of  knowledge.  There  will  be 
more  intelligent  readers  among  Christians, 
ten  fold  at  least,  than  among  those  who 
reject  the  Bible.  The  number  of  readers 
and  admirers  of  thinking  minds,  which  will 
attend  to  the  song  of  the  Christian  poet,  is 
altogether  in  his  favor.  And  what  is  more, 
love  is  the  genius  of  the  gospel.  While 
others  admire  and  gaze  as  they  would  upon 
an  iceberg,  the  Christian  takes  his  poet  to 
his  heart  and  gives  him  his  heart  and  love. 
Who  would  not  prefer  to  have  the  warm 
hearts  that  have  been  given  to  the  pages  of 
the  sweet  Cowper,  than  to  have  all  the 
ditty-music  and  all  the  bacchanalian  admi- 
ration that  has  been  bestowed  upon  all  the 
amatory  songs  that  have  ever  been  written  ? 
Who  would  not  prefer  the  warm-hearted 
admiration  which  is  so  cheerfully  given  to 


INTRODUCTION.  51 

Milton,  than  all  the  praises  which  have  been 
ever  meted  out  to  old  Homer — father  of 
song?  It  is  one  thing  to  walk  around  a 
temple  and  gaze  and  admire  its  cold  marble, 
and  another  to  view  it  with  a  beating  heart, 
because  it  contains  the  shrine  at  which  the 
heart  worships.  The  irreligious  poet  may, 
at  immense  expense,  erect  his  splendid  mau- 
soleum, but  it  contains  only  the  bones  of  dead 
men  j  the  Christian  poet  shall  be  at  the  same 
expense,  and  living  angels  shall  walk  there, 
and  Hope,  in  the  mantle  of  undecaying 
youth,  shall  be  there  to  receive  the  offering 
made  to  the  God  of  hope. 

How  short  is  the  life  of  almost   every 
book, — and  how  little  does  it  effect ! 

«  Thou  wonderest  how  the  world  contained  them 

all! 
Thy   wonder   stay :  like    men,   this    was    their 

doom : — 

That  dust  they  were,  and  should  to  dust  re- 
turn. 

And  oft  their  fathers,  childless  and  bereaved, 
Wept  o'er  their  graves,  when  they  themselves 

were  green ; 

And  on  them  fell,  as  fell  on  every  age, 
As  on  their  authors  fell,  oblivious  Night, — 
Which  o'er  the  past  lay  darkling,  heavy,  still, 
Impenetrable,  motionless  and  sad, 


52  INTRODUCTION. 

Having  his  dismal,  leaden  plumage  stirred 

By  no  remembrancer,  to  show  the  men 

Who  after  came,  what  was  concealed  beneath." 

As  to  the  good  done,  and  the  rewards  of 
that  good,  it  were  vain  to  attempt  any  com- 
parison between  the  Christian  and  the  mere 
poet  of  time.  All  honors  drop  at  the 
grave,  and  the  voice  of  fame  and  applause 
falls  dead  as  it  strikes  the  tomb.  Then,  at 
the  very  spot  at  which  the  creature  of  time 
has  emptied  his  cup  and  received  his  re- 
ward, the  rivers  of  pleasure  begin  everlast- 
ingly to  flow  for  the  servant  of  Christ. 
What  worms  of  earth  can  bestow  shall  be 
the  reward  of  the  one,  while  the  eternal 
smile  of  the  infinite  God  shall  be  the  re- 
ward of  him  who  gives  his  powers  to 
Christ. 

We  cannot  close  these  remarks  upon  the 
gifted  young  poet,  without  distinctly  holding 
him  up  as  an  example  of  encouragement  to 
youth  in  humble  life.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
poor  butcher,  as  were  also  Dr.  Moore,  arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  of  the  present  day, 
and  Cardinal  Woolsey  of  former  days ;  but 
this  was  a  barrier  that  could  be  easily  sur- 
mounted. The  most  favored  and  honored 
of  men,  and  the  choicest  instruments  raised 


INTRODUCTION.  53 

up  by  a  superintending  Providence,  were 
from  the  shades  of  humble  life.  Pascal 
and  Bowditch,  immortal  for  their  accurate 
minds,  were  the  sons  of  mechanics.  Why 
go  over  the  catalogue  of  great  ones  who 
have  sprung  from  similar  origin,  which 
catalogue  has  been  repeated  until  it  is  al- 
most offensive  to  good  taste  ?  We  might, 
in  the  twilight  of  our  wisdom,  go  to  a  palace 
to  select  a  hand  that  could  tear  down  the 
pillars  which  the  superstition  of  ages  had 
reared;  but  God  goes  to  the  mines  and 
takes  the  collier's  son — the  boy  who  begged 
food  from  door  to  door,  while  pursuing  his 
studies — and  raises  him  up  to  be  the  instru- 
ment who  should  usher  in  the  glorious  re- 
formation. There  is  no  aristocracy  of 
talent,  and  mind  is  so  much  more  esteemed 
than  matter;  intellect  is  so  much  more 
highly  prized  than  the  mere  circumstances 
of  birth  or  Of  wealth,  that  they  sink  into 
nothing.  If  the  quill  can  write  a  powerful 
sentence,  it  is  of  little  consequence  whether 
it  came  from  the  wing  of  the  eagle  or  the 
goose.  And  let  no  youth  feel  that  he  can 
be  depressed  by  mere  external  circum- 
stances. If  he  has  the  vis  vita,  the  un- 
speakable gift  of  great  talents,  and  a  heart 


64  INTRODUCTION. 

consecrated  to  the  good  of  men  and  the 
honor  of  God,  there  will  be  no  lack  of  op- 
portunity to  have  these  called  out.  And 
we  hold  up  Henry  Kirk  White  as  a  monu- 
ment of  what  perseverance,  a  right  enthusi- 
asm, and  a  pure  heart  can  accomplish.  We 
hold  him  up  as  a  monument  of  the  power 
of  the  gospel  and  of  the  grace  of  God,  and 
we  commemorate  him  as  an  example  of  the 
powers  of  the  human  soul.  He  died  at  the 
early  age  of  twenty-one ;  but  the  warm 
breathings  of  his  soul  are  still  upon  us,  and 
will  never  grow  cold.  If,  in  that  short 
period,  his  spirit  could  master  so  much  of 
learning ;  if  it  could  drink  so  much  at  so 
many  fountains  of  knowledge ;  if  it  could 
stamp  itself  upon  the  earth,  so  that  its 
lineaments  will  remain,  perhaps  till  the 
archangel's  trumpet  shall  sound,  what  may 
not  be  its  powers,  its  faculties,  its  light,  and 
its  glory,  in  the  eternal  kingdom  of  God, 
where  it  can  see  and  study  and  know  all 
that  comes  within  the  province  of  a  finite 
being ?  What  songs  of  love  and  of  gratitude 
will  not  the  tongue  sing,  as  it  mingles  eter- 
nally with  that  bright  circle  who  will  for- 
ever be  drawing  nearer  the  throne  of  the 
Redeemer  ? 


INTRODUCTION.  55 

Henry  lies  buried  in  Cambridge — the  spot 
on  which  he  fell  a  martyr  to  a  noble  enthu- 
siasm. One  of  our  own  countrymen,  Fran- 
cis Boot,  has  erected  a  monument  there  to 
his  memory.  But  he  needs  not  marble. 
We  admire  the  feeling  which  did  it;  and 
yet  we  are  almost  sorry  that  it  is  done. 
We  would  prefer  that  it  might  still  be  said : 

"  No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 
But  living  statues  there  are  seen  to  weep  ; 
Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb — 
Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom." 

The  name,  the  character,  and  the  writings 
of  White,  are  the  legacy  of  the  young.  To 
them  we  commend  them,  as  we  would  the 
pure  waters  that  gush  from  the  mountain- 
side. They  cannot  be  tasted  without  in- 
vigorating. And,  if  these  remarks,  penned 
with  diffidence,  shall  add  any  thing  to  the 
value  of  the  beautiful  edition  which  our 
respected  publishers  now  put  forth,  our 
gratification  will  be  immeasurably  greater 
than  our  labor. 

PITTSFIELD,  Mass.,  May,  1844. 


INSCRIPTION 

BY    WILLIAM    SMYTH,  ESQ.  PROFESSOR    OF  MODERN 

HISTORY,    CAMBRIDGE  j 

ON    A   MONUMENTAL    TABLET, 

WITH    A   MEDALLION    BY    CHANTREY, 

ERECTED    IN    ALL-SAINT'S    CHURCH,    CAMBRIDGE, 

AT    THE    EXPENSE    OF    FRANCIS    BOOTT,    ESQ. 

OF    BOSTON,    UNITED    STATES. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE, 

BORN    MARCH    21st,    1785;      DIED 

OCTOBER     10th,     1806. 

Warm  with  fond  hope,  and  learning's  sacred  flame, 

To  teranta's  bowen  the  youthful  Poet  came; 

Unconquertt  powers,  the  immortal  mind  diiplay'd, 

But  worn  with  anxious  thought  the  frame  decay'd: 

Pale  o'er  his  lamp  and  in  his  cell  retired, 

The  Martyr  Student  faded  and  expired. 

O  Genius,  Taste,  and  Piety  sincere, 

Too  early  lost,  midst  duties  too  severe! 

Foremost  to  mourn  was  generous  SOUTH  EY  seen, 

He  told  the  tale  and  show'd  what  WHITE  bad  been, 

Nor  told  in  vain— far  o'er  th'  Atlantic  wave, 

A  Wanderer  came  and  sought  the  Poet's  pave; 

On  yon  low  stone  he  saw  his  lonely  name, 

And  raised  this  fond  memorial  to  bis  fame, 

W.  3. 


ACCOUNT 

OF  THE 

LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

BY  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


Not  alone  by  the  Muses, 

But  by  the  Virtues  loved,  his  soul  in  its  youthful  aspirings 
Sought  the  Holy  Hill,  and  his  thirst  was  for  Siloah's  waters. 
Vision  of  Judgment. 

No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 
But  living  statues  there  are  seen  to  weep. 
Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb, 
Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom ! 

BYRON. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE,  the  second  son  of  John 
and  Mary  White,  was  born  in  Nottingham,  March 
2 1  st,  1 784.  His  father  was  a  butcher ;  his  mother, 
whose  maiden  name  was  Neville,  is  of  respectable 
Staffordshire  family. 

From  the  years  of  three  till  five,  Henry  learnt 
to  read  at  the  school  of  Mrs.  Garrington ;  whose 
name,  unimportant  as  it  may  appear,  is  mentioned 
because  she  had  the  good  sense  to  perceive  his  ex- 
traordinary capacity,  and  spoke  of  what  it  pro- 
mised with  confidence.  She  was  an  excellent  wo- 

57 


58  LIFE    OP 

man,  and  he  describes  her  with  affection  in  his 
poem  upon  Childhood.  At  a  very  early  age  his 
love  of  reading  was  decidedly  manifested ;  it  was 
a  passion  to  which  every  thing  else  gave  way. 
"  I  could  fancy,"  says  his  eldest  sister,  "  I  see  him 
in  his  little  chair,  with  a  large  book  upon  his  knee, 
and  my  mother  calling, f  Henry,  my  love,  come  to 
dinner ;'  which  was  repeated  so  often  without  be- 
ing regarded,  that  she  was  obliged  to  change  the 
tone  of  her  voice  before  she  could  rouse  him." 
When  he  was  about  seven,  he  would  creep  unper- 
ceived  into  the  kitchen,  to  teach  the  servant  to  read 
and  write;  and  he  continued  this  for  some  time  before 
it  was  discovered  that  he  had  been  thus  laudably 
employed.  He  wrote  a  tale  of  a  Swiss  emigrant, 
which  was  probably  his  first  composition,  and  gave 
it  to  this  servant,  being  ashamed  to  show  it  to  his 
mother.  The  consciousness  of  genius  is  always 
at  first  accompanied  with  this  diffidence  ;  it  is  a 
sacred,  solitary  feeling.  And  perhaps,  no  forward 
child,  however  extraordinary  the  promise  of  his 
childhood,  ever  produced  any  thing  truly  great. 

When  Henry  was  about  six,  he  was  placed  un- 
der the  Rev.  John  Blanchard,  who  kept,  at  that 
time,  the  best  school  in  Nottingham.  Here  he 
learnt  writing,  arithmetic,  and  French.  When  he 
was  about  eleven,  he  one  day  wrote  a  separate 
theme  for  every  boy  in  his  class,  which  consisted 
of  about  twelve  or  fourteen.  The  master  said  he 
had  never  known  them  write  so  well  upon  any 
subject  before,  and  could  not  refrain  from  express- 
ing his  astonishment  at  the  excellence  of  Henry's. 


HENRY   KIRKE    WHITE.  59 

It  was  considered  as  a  great  thing  for  him  to  be  at 
so  good  a  school,  yet  there  were  some  circum- 
stances which  rendered  it  less  advantageous  to  him 
than  it  might  have  been.  Mrs.  White  had  not  yet 
overcome  her  husband's  intention  of  breeding  him 
up  to  his  own  business ;  and  by  an  arrangement 
which  took  up  too  much  of  his  time,  and  would 
have  crushed  his  spirit,  if  that  "mounting  spirit" 
could  have  been  crushed,  one  whole  day  in  the 
week,  and  his  leisure  hours  on  the  others,  were  em- 
ployed in  carrying  the  butcher's  basket.  Some 
differences  at  length  arose  between  his  father  and 
Mr.  Blanchard,  in  consequence  of  which  Henry 
was  removed. 

One  of  the  ushers,  when  he  came  to  receive  the 
money  due  for  tuition,  took  the  opportunity  of  in- 
forming Mrs.  White  what  an  incorrigible  son  she 
had,  and  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  the  lad 
do  any  thing.  This  information  made  his  friends 
very  uneasy :  they  were  dispirited  about  him ;  and 
had  they  relied  wholly  upon  this  report,  the  stu- 
pidity or  malice  of  this  man  would  have  blasted 
Henry's  progress  for  ever.  He  was,  however, 
placed  under  the  care  of  a  Mr.  Shipley,  who  soon 
discovered  that  he  was  a  boy  of  quick  perception, 
and  very  admirable  talents ;  and  came  with  joy, 
like  a  good  man,  to  relieve  the  anxiety  and  pain- 
ful suspicions  of  his  family. 

While  his  schoolmasters  were  complaining  that 
they  could  make  nothing  of  him,  he  discovered 
what  Nature  had  made  him,  and  wrote  satires 
upon  them.  These  pieces  were  never  shown  to 


60  LIFE    OF 

any,  except  his  most  particular  friends,  who  say 
that  they  were  pointed  and  severe.  They  are 
enumerated  in  the  table  of  contents  to  one  of  his 
manuscript  volumes,  under  the  title  of  School- 
Lampoons  ;  but,  as  was  to  be  expected,  he  had 
cut  the  leaves  out  and  destroyed  them. 

One  of  his  poems,  written  at  this  time,  and  un- 
der these  feelings,  is  preserved.  (See  "  Lines  on 
being  confined  to  school  one  pleasant  morning  in 
spring,"  page  318.) 

About  this  time  his  mother  was  induced,  by  the 
advice  of  several  friends,  to  open  a  Ladies'  Board- 
ing and  Day  School  in  Nottingham,  her  eldest 
daughter  having  previously  been  a  teacher  in  one 
for  some  time.  In  this  she  succeeded  beyond  her 
most  sanguine  expectations,  and  Henry's  home- 
comforts  were  thus  materially  increased,  though 
it  was  still  out  of  the  power  of  his  family  to  give 
him  that  education  and  direction  in  life  which  his 
talents  deserved  and  required. 

It  was  now  determined  to  breed  him  up  to  the 
hosiery  trade,  the  staple  manufacture  of  his  native 
place ;  and  at  the  age  of  fourteen  he  was  placed 
in  a  stocking-loom,  with  the  view,  at  some  future 
period,  of  getting  a  situation  in  a  hosier's  ware- 
house. During  the  time  that  he  was  thus  employ- 
ed, he  might  be  said  to  be  truly  unhappy  ;  he  went 
to  his  work  with  evident  reluctance,  and  could  not 
refrain  from  sometimes  hinting  his  extreme  aver- 
sion to  it ;  but  the  circumstances  of  his  family 
obliged  them  to  turn  a  deaf  ear.  His  mother, 
however,  secretly  felt  that  he  was  worthy  of  better 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  61 

things :  to  her  he  spoke  more  openly ;  he  could 
not  bear,  he  said,  the  thought  of  spending  seven, 
years  of  his  life  in  shining  and  folding  up  stock- 
ings ;  he  wanted  something  to  occupy  his  brain, 
and  he  should  be  wretched  if  he  continued  longer 
at  this  trade,  or  indeed  in  any  thing  except  one  of 
the  learned  professions.  These  frequent  com- 
plaints, after  a  year's  application,  or  rather  mis- 
application (as  his  brother  says),  at  the  loom,  con- 
vinced her  that  he  had  a  mind  destined  for  nobler 
pursuits. 

To  one  so  situated,  and  with  nothing  but  his 
own  talents  and  exertions  to  depend  upon,  the 
Law  seemed  to  be  the  only  practicable  line.  His 
affectionate  and  excellent  mother  made  every  pos- 
sible effort  to  effect  his  wishes,  his  father  being 
very  averse  to  the  plan  ;  and  at  length,  after  over- 
coming a  variety  of  obstacles,  he  was  fixed  in  the 
office  of  Messrs.  Coldham  and  Enfield,  attorneys 
and  town-clerks  of  Nottingham.  As  no  premium 
could  be  given  with  him,  he  was  engaged  to  serve 
two  years  before  he  was  articled  :  so  that,  though 
he  entered  this  office  when  he  was  fifteen,  he  was 
not  articled  till  the  commencement  of  the  year 
1802. 

On  his  thus  entering  the  Law,  it  was  recommend- 
ed to  him  by  his  employers,  that  he  should  en- 
deavour to  obtain  some  knowledge  of  Latin.  He 
had  now  only  the  little  time  which  an  attorney's 
office,  in  very  extensive  practice,  afforded ;  but 
great  things  may  be  done  in  "those  hours  of  leisure 
which  even  the  busiest  may  create,"  and  to  his 


62  LIFE    OP 

ardent  mind  no  obstacles  were  too  discouraging. 
He  received  some  instruction  in  the  first  rudiments 
of  this  language  from  a  person  who  then  resided 
at  Nottingham  under  a  feigned  name,  hut  was  soon 
obliged  to  leave  it,  to  elude  the  search  of  govern- 
ment, who  were  then  seeking  to  secure  him. 
Henry  discovered  him  to  be  Mr.  Cormick,  from 
a  print  affixed  to  a  continuation  of  Hume  and 
Smollett,  and  published,  with  their  histories,  by 
Cooke.  He  is,  I  believe,  the  same  person  who 
wrote  a  life  of  Burke.  If  he  received  any  other 
assistance  it  was  very  trifling ;  yet,  in  the  course 
of  ten  months,  he  enabled  himself  to  read  Horace 
with  tolerable  facility,  and  had  made  some  progress 
in  Greek,  which  indeed  he  began  first.  He  used 
to  exercise  himself  in  declining  the  Greek  nouns 
and  verbs  as  he  was  going  to  and  from  the  office, 
so  valuable  was  time  become  to  him.  From  this 
time  he  contracted  a  habit  of  employing  his  mind 
in  study  during  his  walks,  which  he  continued  to 
the  end  of  his  life. 

He  now  became  almost  estranged  from  his  fam- 
ily ;  even  at  his  meals  he  would  be  reading,  and 
his  evenings  were  entirely  devoted  to  intellectual 
improvement.  He  had  a  little  room  given  him, 
which  was  called  his  study ;  and  here  his  milk 
supper  was  taken  up  to  him ;  for,  to  avoid  any 
loss  of  time,  he  refused  to  sup  with  his  family, 
though  earnestly  entreated  so  to  do,  as  his  mother 
already  began  to  dread  the  effects  of  this  severe 
and  unremitting  application.  The  Law  was  his 
first  pursuit,  to  which  his  papers  show  he  had  ap- 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  63 

plied  himself  with  such  industry,  as  to  make  it 
wonderful  that  he  could  have  found  lime,  busied 
as  his  days  were,  for  any  thing  else.  Greek  and 
Latin  were  the  next  objects  :  at  the  same  time  he 
made  himself  a  tolerable  Italian  scholar,  and  ac- 
quired some  knowledge  both  of  the  Spanish  and 
Portuguese.  His  medical  friends  say  that  the 
knowledge  he  had  obtained  of  chemistry  was  very 
respectable.  Astronomy  and  electricity  were 
among  his  studies.  Some  attention  he  paid  to 
drawing,  in  which  it  is  probable  he  would  have 
excelled.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  music,  and 
could  play  very  pleasingly  by  ear  on  the  piano- 
forte, composing  the  bass  to  the  air  he  was  play- 
ing ;  but  this  propensity  he  checked,  lest  it  might 
interfere  with  more  important  objects.  He  had  a 
turn  for  mechanics  ;  and  all  the  fittings-up  of  his 
study  were  the  work  of  his  own  hands. 

At  a  very  early  age,  indeed  soon  after  he  was 
taken  from  school,  Henry  was  ambitious  of  being 
admitted  a  member  of  a  Literary  Society  then  ex- 
isting in  Nottingham,  but  was  objected  to  on  ac- 
count of  his  youth.  After  repeated  attempts  and 
repeated  failures,  he  succeeded  in  his  wish,  through 
the  exertions  of  some  of  his  friends,  and  was  elect- 
ed. There  were  six  Professors  in  this  Society ; 
and,  upon  the  first  vacancy,  he  was  appointed  to 
the  chair  of  Literature.  It  may  well  appear 
strange  that  a  society,  in  so  large  a  town  as  Not- 
tingham, instituted  for  the  purpose  of  acquiring 
and  diffusing  knowledge,  and  respectable  enough 
to  be  provided  with  a  good  philosophical  appara- 


64  X.IFE    OP 

tus,  should  have  chosen  a  boy,  in  the  fifteenth  year 
of  his  age,  to  deliver  lectures  to  them  upon  general 
literature.  The  first  subject  upon  which  he  held 
forth  was  Genius.  Having  taken  a  day  to  con- 
sider the  subject,  he  spoke  upon  it  extempore,  and 
harangued  for  two  hours  and  three  quarters  :  yet, 
instead  of  being  wearied,  his  hearers  passed  a 
unanimous  resolution,  "  That  the  most  sincere 
thanks  be  given  to  the  Professor  for  his  most  in- 
structive and  entertaining  lecture  ;  at  the  same  time 
assuring  him  that  the  Society  never  had  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  a  better  lecture  delivered  from  that 
chair  which  he  so  much  honoured :"  and  they  then 
elected  him  one  of  their  committee.  There  are 
certain  courts  at  Nottingham,  in  which  it  is  ne- 
cessary for  an  attorney  to  plead ;  and  he  wished 
to  qualify  himself  for  a  speaker  as  well  as  a  sound 
lawyer. 

With  the  profession  in  which  he  was  placed  he 
was  well  pleased,  and  suffered  no  pursuit,  nume- 
rous as  his  pursuits  were,  to  interfere  in  the  slight- 
est degree  with  its  duties.  Yet  he  soon  began  to 
have  higher  aspirations,  and  to  cast  a  wistful  eye 
toward  the  Universities,  with  little  hope  of  ever 
attaining  their  important  advantages,  yet  probably 
not  without  some,  however  faint.  There  was  at 
this  time  a  magazine  in  publication,  called  the 
Monthly  Preceptor,  which  proposed  prize-themes 
for  boys  and  girls  to  write  upon ;  and  which  was 
encouraged  by  many  schoolmasters,  some  of 
whom,  for  their  own  credit,  and  that  of  the  impor- 
tant institutions  in  which  they  were  placed,  ought 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  65 

to  have  known  better  than  to  encourage  it.  But 
in  schools,  and  in  all  practical  systems  of  educa- 
tion, emulation  is  made  the  main-spring,  as  if  there 
were  not  enough  of  the  leaven  of  disquietude  in 
our  natures,  without  inoculating  it  with  this  dilute- 
ment — this  vaccine  virus  of  envy.  True  it  is,  that 
we  need  encouragement  in  youth;  that  though 
our  vices  spring  up  and  thrive  in  shade  and  dark- 
ness, like  poisonous  fungi,  our  better  powers  re- 
quire light  and  air  ;  and  that  praise  is  the  sunshine, 
without  which  genius  will  wither,  fade,  and  die  ; 
or  rather  in  search  of  which,  like  a  plant  that  is 
debarred  from  it,  will  push  forth  in  contortions 
and  deformity.  But  such  practices  as  that  of  wri- 
ting for  public  prizes,  of  publicly  declaiming,  and 
of  enacting  plays  before  the  neighbouring  gentry, 
teach  boys  to  look  for  applause  instead  of  being 
satisfied  with  approbation,  and  foster  in  them  that 
vanity  which  needs  no  such  cherishing.  This  is 
administering  stimulants  to  the  heart,  instead  of 
"  feeding  it  with  food  convenient  for  it ;"  and  the 
effect  of  such  stimulants  is  to  dwarf  the  human  mind, 
as  lap-dogs  are  Said  to  be  stopt  in  their  growth  by 
being  dosed  with  gin.  Thus  forced,  it  becomes 
like  the  sapling  which  shoots  up  when  it  should 
be  striking  its  roots  far  arid  deep,  and  which  there- 
fore never  attains  to  more  than  a  sapling's  size. 

To  Henry,  however,  the  opportunity  of  distin- 
guishing himself,  even  in  the  Juvenile  Library, 
was  useful ;  if  he  had  acted  with  a  man's  foresight, 
he  could  not  have  done  more  wisely  than  by  aim- 
ing at  every  distinction  within  his  little  sphere.  At 


66 

the  age  of  fifteen,  he  gained  a  silver  medal  for  a 
translation  from  Horace  ;  and  the  following  year 
a  pair  of  twelve-inch  globes,  for  an  imaginary 
Tour  from  London  to  Edinburgh.  He  determined 
upon  trying  for  this  prize  one  evening  when  at  tea 
with  his  family,  and  at  supper  he  read  to  them  his 
performance,  to  which  seven  pages  were  granted 
in  the  magazine,  though  they  had  limited  the  al- 
lowance of  room  to  three.  Shortly  afterwards  he 
won  several  books  for  exercises  on  different  sub- 
jects. Such  honours  were  of  great  importance  to 
him ;  they  were  testimonies  of  his  ability,  which 
could  not  be  suspected  of  partiality,  and  they  pre- 
pared his  father  to  regard  with  less  reluctance  that 
change  in  his  views  and  wishes  which  afterwards 
took  place.  It  appears  by  a  letter  written  soon 
after  he  had  completed  his  fifteenth  year, that  many 
of  his  pieces  in  prose  and  verse,  under  feigned  sig- 
natures, had  gained  admission  in  the  various  mag- 
azines of  the  day,  more  particularly  in  the  Month- 
ly Magazine  and  the  Monthly  Visitor  :  "  In  pro- 
saic composition,"  he  says,  "  I  never  had  one  ar- 
ticle refused:  in  poetic,  many." — "I  am  conscious," 
he  observes,  at  this  time,  to  his  brother,  "  that  if 
I  chose  1  could  produce  poems  infinitely  superior 
to  any  you  have  yet  seen  of  mine ;  but  I  am  so 
indolent,  and  at  the  same  time  so  much  engaged, 
that  I  cannot  give  the  time  and  attention  necessary 
for  the  formation  of  correct  and  accurate  pieces." 
Less  time  and  attention  are  necessary  for  correct- 
ing prose,  and  this  may  be  one  reason  why,  con- 
trary to  the  usual  process,  a  greater  prematurity  is 


HENET    KIBKE    WHITE.  67 

discernable  in  his  prose  than  in  his  metrical  com- 
positions. "  The  reason,"  he  says,  "  of  the  num- 
ber of  erasures  and  corrections  in  my  letter  is,  that 
it  contains  a  rough  transcript  of  the  state  of  my 
mind,  without  my  having  made  any  sketch  on 
anotiier  paper  When  I  sit  down  to  write,  ideas 
crowd  into  my  mind  too  fast  for  utterance  upon 
paper.  Some  of  them  I  think  too  precious  to  be 
lost,  and  for  fear  their  impression  should  be  effaced, 
I  write  as  rapidly  as  possible.  This  accounts  for 
my  bad  writing." 

He  now  became  a  correspondent  in  the  Monthly 
Mirror,  a  magazine  which  first  set  the  example  of 
typographical  neatness  in  periodical  publications, 
which  has  given  the  world  a  good  series  of  por- 
traits, and  which  deserves  praise  also  on  other  ac- 
counts, having  among  its  contributors  some  per- 
sons of  extensive  erudition  and  acknowledged  tal- 
ents. Magazines  are  of  great  service  to  those  who 
are  learning  to  write  ;  they  are  fishing-boats,  which 
the  Buccaneers  of  Literature  do  not  condescend 
to  sink,  burn,  and  destroy  :  young  poets  may  safely 
try  their  strength  in  them  ;  and  that  they  should 
try  their  strength  before  the  public,  without  danger 
of  any  shame  from  failure,  is  highly  desirable. 
Henry's  rapid  improvement  was  now  as  remark- 
able as  his  unwearied  industry.  The  pieces  which 
had  been  rewarded  in  the  Juvenile  Preceptor 
might  have  been  rivalled  by  many  boys ;  but  what 
he  produced  a  year  afterwards,  few  men  could 
equal.  Those  which  appeared  in  the  Monthly 
Mirror  attracted  some  notice,  and  introduced  him 


68  LIFE  or 

to  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Capel  Lofft,  and  of 
Mr.  Hill,  the  proprietor  of  the  work,  a  gentleman 
who  was  himself  a  lover  of  English  literature, 
and  who  possessed  one  of  the  most  copious  col- 
lections of  English  poetry  in  existence.  Their 
encouragement  induced  him,  about  the  close  of 
the  year  1802,  to  prepare  a  little  volume  of  poems 
for  the  press.  It  was  his  hope  that  this  publica- 
tion might  either,  by  the  success  of  its  sale,  or  the 
notice  which  it  might  excite,  enable  him  to  pro- 
secute his  studies  at  college,  and  fit  himself  for 
holy  orders.  For,  though  so  far  was  he  from, 
feeling  any  dislike  to  his  own  profession,  that  he 
was  even  attached  to  it,  and  had  indulged  a  hope 
that  one  day  or  other  he  should  make  his  way  to 
the  Bar,  a  deafness,  to  which  he  had  always  been 
subject,  and  which  appeared  to  grow  progressively 
worse,  threatened  to  preclude  all  possibility  of  ad- 
vancement ;  and  his  opinions,  which  had  at  one 
time  inclined  to  infidelity,  had  now  taken  a  strong 
devotional  bias. 

Henry  was  earnestly  advised  to  obtain,  if  pos- 
sible, some  patroness  for  his  book,  whose  rank  in 
life,  and  notoriety  in  the  literary  world,  might 
afford  it  some  protection.  The  days  of  such  dedi- 
cations are  happily  well-nigh  at  an  end ;  but  this 
was  of  importance  to  him,  as  giving  his  little  vol- 
ume consequence  in  the  eyes  of  his  friends  and 
townsmen.  The  Countess  of  Derby  was  first  ap- 
plied to,  and  the  manuscript  submitted  to  her  pe- 
rusal. She  returned  it  with  a  refusal,  upon  the 
ground  that  it  was  an  invariable  rule  with  her 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  69 

never  to  accept  a  compliment  of  the  kind;  but 
this  refusal  was  couched  in  language  as  kind  as  it 
was  complimentary,  and  he  felt  more  pleasure  at  the 
kindness  which  it  expressed,  than  disappointment 
at  the  failure  of  his  application  :  a  2l.  note  was  in- 
closed as  her  subscription  to  the  work.  The  mar- 
gravine of  Anspach  was  also  thought  of.  There 
is  among  his  papers  the  'draught  of  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  her  upon  the  subject,  but  I  believe  it 
was  never  sent.  He  was  then  recommended  to 
apply  to  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire.  Poor  Hen- 
ry felt  a  fit  of  repugnance  at  courting  patronage  in 
this  way,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  of  consequence  in 
his  little  world,  and  submitted  ;  and  the  manuscript 
was  left,  with  a  letter,  at  Devonshire  House,  as  it 
had  been  with  the  Countess  of  Derby.  Some  time 
elapsed,  and  no  answer  arrived  from  her  Grace  ; 
and,  as  she  was  known  to  be  pestered  with  such 
applications,  apprehensions  began  to  be  entertained 
for  the  safety  of  the  papers.  His  brother  Neville 
(who  was  now  settled  in  London)  called  several 
times ;  of  course  he  never  obtained  an  interview  : 
the  case  at  last  became  desperate,  and  he  went 
with  a  determination  not  to  quit  the  house  till  he 
had  obtained  them.  After  waiting  four  hours  in 
the  servants'  hall,  his  perseverance  conquered  their 
idle  insolence,  and  he  got  possession  of  the  man- 
uscript. And  here  he,  as  well  as  his  brother,  sick 
of  "  dancing  attendance"  upon  the  great,  would 
have  relinquished  all  thoughts  of  the  dedication, 
but  they  were  urged  to  make  one  more  trial : — a 
letter  to  her  Grace  was  procured,  with  which  Ne- 


70  LIFE    OP 

rille  obtained  audience,  wisely  leaving  the  man- 
uscript at  home  :  and  the  Duchess,  with  her  usual 
good-nature,  gave  permission  that  the  volume 
should  be  dedicated  to  her.  Accordingly  her  name 
appeared  in  the  title-page,  and  a  copy  was  trans- 
mitted to  her  in  due  form,  and  in  its  due  morocco 
livery, — of  which  no  notice  was  ever  taken.  In- 
volved as  she  was  in  an  endless  round  of  miserable 
follies,  it  is  probable  that  she  never  opened  the 
book,  otherwise  her  heart  was  good  enough  to 
have  felt  a  pleasure  in  encouraging  the  author. 
Oh,  what  a  lesson  would  the  history  of  that  heart 
hold  out ! 

Henry  sent  his  little  volume  to  each  of  the  then 
existing  Reviews,  and  accompanied  it  with  a  let- 
ter, wherein  he  stated  what  his  disadvantages  had 
been,  and  what  were  the  hopes  which  he  proposed 
to  himself  from  the  publication :  requesting  from 
them  that  indulgence  of  which  his  productions  did 
not  stand  in  need,  and  which  it  might  have  been 
thought,  under  such  circumstances,  would  not  have 
been  withheld  from  works  of  less  promise.  It  may 
be  well  conceived  with  what  anxiety  he  looked 
for  their  opinions,  and  with  what  feelings  he  read 
the  following  article  in  the  Monthly  Review  for 
February,  1804. 

Monthly  Review,  February,  1804. 

"  The  circumstances  under  which  this  little  vol- 
ume is  offered  to  the  public,  must,  in  some  measure, 
disarm  criticism.  We  have  been  informed  that 


HENRi    KIRKE    WHITE.  71 

Mr.  White  has  scarcely  attained  his  eighteenth 
year,  has  hitherto  exerted  himself  in  the  pursuit 
of  knowledge  under  the  discouragements  of  pen- 
ury and  misfortune,  and  now  hopes,  by  this  early 
authorship,  to  obtain  some  assistance  in  the  pro- 
secution of  his  studies  at  Cambridge.  He  appears, 
indeed,  to  be  one  of  those  young  men  of  talents 
and  application  who  merit  encouragement ;  and  it 
would  be  gratifying  to  us  to  hear  that  this  publi- 
cation had  obtained  for  him  a  respectable  patron  ; 
for  we  fear  that  the  mere  profit  arising  from  the 
sale  cannot  be,  in  any  measure,  adequate  to  his  ex- 
igencies as  a  student  at  the  university.  A  sub- 
scription, with  a  statement  of  the  particulars  of 
the  author's  case,  might  have  been  calculated  to 
have  answered  his  purpose  ;  but,  as  a  book  which 
is  to  'win  its  way'  on  the  sole  ground  of  its  own 
merit,  this  poem  cannot  be  contemplated  with  any 
sanguine  expectation.  The  author  is  very  anxious, 
however,  that  critics  should  find  in  it  something  to 
commend,  and  he  shall  not  be  disappointed :  we 
commend  his  exertions  and  his  laudable  endeavors 
to  excel;  but  we  cannot  compliment  him  with 
having  learned  the  difficult  art  of -writing  good 
poetry. 

"  Such  lines  as  these  will  sufficiently  prove  our 
assertion : 

Here  would  I  run,  a  visionary  Boyt 
When  the  hoarse  thunder  shook  the  vaulted  Sky, 
And,  fancy-led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 
Sternly  careering  in  the  eddying  storm. 


72  JLIFB    OF 

« If  Mr.  White  should  be  instructed  by  Alma- 
mater,  he  will,  doubtless,  produce  better  sense  and 
better  rhymes." 

I  know  not  who  was  the  writer  of  this  precious 
article.  It  is  certain  that  Henry  could  have  no 
personal  enemy  :  his  volume  fell  into  the  hands  of 
some  dull  man,  who  took  it  up  in  an  hour  of  ill- 
humor,  turned  over  the  leaves  to  look  for  faults, 
and  finding  that  Boy  and  Sky  were  not  orthodox 
rhymes,  according  to  his  wise  canons  of  criticism, 
sat  down  to  blast  the  hopes  of  a  boy,  who  had 
confessed  to  him  all  his  hopes  and  all  his  difficul- 
ties, and  thrown  himself  upon  his  mercy.  With 
such  a  letter  before  him  (by  mere  accident  I  saw 
that  which  had  been  sent  to  the  Critical  Review,) 
even  though  the  poems  had  been  bad,  a  good  man 
would  not  have  said  so :  he  would  have  avoided 
censure,  if  he  had  found  it  impossible  to  bestow 
praise.  But  that  the  reader  may  perceive  the 
wicked  injustice,  as  well  as  the  cruelty  of  this  re- 
viewal,  a  few  specimens  of  the  volume,  thus  con- 
temptuously condemned  because  Boy  and  Sky  are 
used  as  rhymes  in  it,  shall  be  inserted  in  this  place. 

TO  THE  HERB  ROSEMARY.* 

Sweet-scented  flower  !  who  art  wont  to  bloom 

On  January's  front  severe, 

And  o'er  the  wintry  desert  drear 

To  waft  thy  waste  perfume  ! 
Come,  thou  shall  form  my  nosegay  now, 
And  I  will  bind  thee  round  my  brow ; 

*  The  Rosemary  buds  in  January,    It  is  the  flower  commonly 
put  in  the  coifins  of  the  dead. 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  73 

And  as  I  twine  the  mournful  wreath, 
I'll  weave  a  melancholy  song : 
And  sweet  the  strain  shall  be  and  long, 

The  melody  of  death. 

Come,  funeral  flow'r !  who  lovest  to  dwell 

With  the  pale  corse  in  lonely  tomb, 

And  throw  across  the  desert  gloom 

A  sweet  decaying  smell. 
Come,  press  my  lips,  and  lie  with  me 
Beneath  the  lowly  Alder-tree, 

And  we  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep, 
And  not  a  care  shall  dare  intrude, 
To  break  the  marble  solitude, 

So  peaceful  and  so  deep. 

And  bark !  the  wind -god,  as  he  flies, 

Moans  hollow  in  the  forest  trees, 

And  sailing  on  the  gusty  breeze, 

Mysterious  music  dies. 
Sweet  flower !  that  requiem  wild  is  mine, 
It  warns  me  to  the  lonely  shrine, 
The  cold  turf-altar  of  the  dead ; 

My  grave  shall  be  in  yon  lone  spot, 

Where  as  I  lie,  by  all  forgot, 
A  dying  fragrance  thou  wilt  o'er  my  ashes  shed. 


TO  THE  MORNING. 

WRITTEN   DURING   ILLNESS. 

Beams  of  the  day-break  faint !  I  hail 
Your  dubious  hues,  as  on  the  robe 
Of  Night,  which  wraps  the  slumbering  globe, 
I  mark  your  traces  pale. 


74 

Tired  with  the  taper's  sickly  light, 
And  with  the  wearying,  number'd  night, 

I  hail  the  streaks  of  morn  divine : 
And  lo !  they  break  between  the  dewy  wreaths 

That  round  my  rural  casement  twine : 
The  fresh  gale  o'er  the  green  lawn  breathes ; 
It  fans  my  feverish  brow, — it  calms  the  mental  strife, 
And  cheerily  re-illumes  the  lambent  flame  of  life. 

The  lark  has  her  gay  song  begun, 

She  leaves  her  grassy  nest, 
And  soars  till  the  unrisen  sun 

Gleams  on  her  speckled  breast. 
Now  let  rne  leave  my  restless  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spangled  uplands  tread  ; 

Now  through  the  custom'd  wood-walk  wend ; 
By  many  a  green  lane  lies  my  way, 

Where  high  o'erhead  the  wild  briers  bend, 
Till  on  the  mountain's  summit  grey, 
I  sit  me  down,  and  mark  the  glorious  dawn  of  day. 

Oh,  Heav'n !  the  soft  refreshing  gale 

It  breathes  into  my  breast ! 
My  sunk  eye  gleams ;  my  cheek,  so  pale, 

Is  with  new  colors  drest. 
Blithe  Health  !  thou  soul  of  life  and  ease, 
Come  thou  too  on  the  balmy  breeze, 

Invigorate  my  frame : 
I'll  join  with  thee  the  buskin'd  chase, 
With  thee  the  distant  clime  will  trace, 

Beyond  those  clouds  of  flame. 

Above,  below,  what  charms  unfold 

In  all  the  varied  view ! 
Before  me  all  is  burnish'd  gold, 

Behind  the  twilight's  hue. 
The  mists  which  on  old  Night  await, 
Far  to  the  west  they  bold  their  state, 


HENRY   KIRKE    WHITE.  75 

They  shun  the  clear  blue  face  of  Morn ; 

Along  the  fine  cerulean  sky, 

The  fleecy  clouds  successive  fly, 
While  bright  prismatic  beams  their  shadowy  folds  adorn. 

And  hark !  the  Thatcher  has  begun 

His  whistle  on  the  eaves, 
And  oft  the  Hedger's  bill  is  heard 

Among  the  rustling  leaves. 
The  slow  team  creaks  upon  the  road, 

The  noisy  whip  resounds, 
The  driver's  voice,  his  carol  blithe, 
The  mower's  stroke,  his  whetting  scythe, 

Mix  with  the  morning's  sounds. 

Who  would  not  rather  take  his  seat 

Beneath  these  dumps  of  trees, 
The  early  dawn  of  day  to  greet, 

And  catch  the  healthy  breeze, 
Than  on  the  silken  couch  of  Sloth 

Luxurious  to  lie  ? 

Who  would  not  from  life's  dreary  waste 
Snatch,  when  he  could,  with  eager  haste, 

An  interval  of  joy  ? 

To  him  who  simply  thus  recounts 

The  morning's  pleasures  o'er, 
Fate  dooms,  ere  long,  the  scene  must  close, 

To  ope  on  him  no  more : 
Yet,  Morning !  unrepining  still 

He'll  greet  thy  beams  awhile ; 
And  surely  thou,  when  o'er  his  grave 
Solemn  the  whispering  willows  wave, 

Wilt  sweetly  on  him  smile ; 
And  the  pale  glow-worm's  pensive  light 
Will  guide  his  ghostly  walks  in  the  drear  moonless  night 


76  LIFE    OF 

An  author  is  proof  against  reviewing,  when, 
ake  myself,  he  has  been  reviewed  some  seventy 
times;  but  the  opinion  of  a  reviewer,  upon  his 
first  publication,  has  more  effect,  both  upon  his 
feelings  and  his  success,  than  it  ought  to  have,  or 
would  have,  if  the  mystery  of  the  ungentle  craft 
were  more  generally  understood.  Henry  wrote 
to  the  editor  to  complain  of  the  cruelty  with  which 
he  had  been  treated.  This  remonstrance  produced 
the  following  answer  in  the  next  number : 


Monthly  Review,  March,  1804. 

ADDRESS    TO    CORRESPONDENTS. 

« In  the  course  of  our  long  critical  labors,  we 
have  necessarily  been  forced  to  encounter  the  re- 
sentment, or  withstand  the  lamentations,  of  many 
disappointed  authors ;  but  we  have  seldom,  if  ever, 
been  more  affected  than  by  a  letter  from  Mr. 
White,  of  Nottingham,  complaining  of  the  ten- 
dency of  our  strictures  on  his  poem  of  Clifton 
Grove,  in  our  last  number.  His  expostulations 
are  written  with  a  warmth  of  feeling  in  which  we 
truly  sympathise,  and  which  shall  readily  excuse, 
with  us,  some  expressions  of  irritation ;  but  Mr. 
White  must  receive  our  most  serious  declaration, 
that  we  did  'judge  of  the  book  by  the  book  itself;' 
excepting  only,  that,  from  his  former  letter,  we 
were  desirous  of  mitigating  the  pain  of  that  de- 
cision which  our  public  duty  required  us  to  pro- 
nounce. We  spoke  with  the  utmost  sincerity 


HENRY    KIUKE    WHITE.  Tl 

when  we  stated  our  wishes  for  patronage  to  an 
unfriended  man  of  talents,  for  talents  Mr.  White 
certainly  possesses,  and  we  repeat  those  wishes 
with  equal  cordiality.  Let  him  still  trust  that,  like 
Mr.  Giiford  (see  preface  to  his  translation  of  Juve- 
nal,) some  Mr.  Cookesley  may  yet  appear  to  foster 
a  capacity  which  endeavours  to  escape  from  its 
present  confined  sphere  of  action  ;  and  let  the  op- 
ulent inhabitants  of  Nottingham  reflect,  that  some 
portion  of  that  wealth  which  they  have  worthily 
acquired  by  the  habits  of  industry,  will  be  lauda- 
bly applied  in  assisting  the  efforts  of  mind." 

Henry  was  not  aware  that  reviewers  are  infal- 
lible. His  letter  seems  to  have  been  answered  by 
a  different  writer ;  the  answer  has  none  of  the 
commonplace  and  vulgar  insolence  of  the  criti- 
cism :  but  to  have  made  any  concession  would 
have  been  admitting  that  a  review  can  do  wrong, 
and  thus  violating  the  fundamental  principle  of  its 
constitution. 

The  poems  which  had  been  thus  condemned, 
appeared  to  me  to  discover  strong  marks  of  genius. 
I  had  shown  them  to  two  of  my  friends,  than  whom 
no  persons  living  better  understand  what  poetry 
is,  nor  have  given  better  proofs  of  it ;  and  their 
opinion  coincided  with  my  own.  I  was  indignant 
at  the  injustice  of  this  pretended  criticism,  and 
having  accidentally  seen  the  letter  which  he  had 
written  to  the  reviewers,  understood  the  whole 
cruelty  of  their  injustice.  In  consequence  of  this 
I  wrote  to  Henry,  to  encourage  him ;  told  him, 
that  though  I  was  well  aware  how  imprudent  it 


78  LIFE    OP 

was  in  young  poets  to  publish  their  productions, 
his  circumstances  seemed  to  render  that  expedient, 
from  which  it  would  otherwise  be  right  to  dissuade 
him ;  advised  him  therefore,  if  he  had  no  better 
prospects,  to  print  a  larger  volume  by  subscription, 
and  offered  to  do  what  little  was  in  my  power  to 
serve  him  in  the  undertaking.  To  this  he  replied 
in  the  following  letter  : — 

*«*•*<• 

"  I  dare  not  say  all  I  feel  respecting  your  opin- 
ion of  my  little  volume.  The  extreme  acrimony 
with  which  the  Monthly  Review  (of  all  others  the 
most  important)  treated  me,  threw  me  into  a  state 
of  stupefaction  ;  I  regarded  all  that  had  passed  as 
a  dream,  and  I  thought  I  had  been  deluding  my- 
self into  an  idea  of  possessing  poetic  genius,  when 
in  fact  I  had  only  the  longing,  without  the  afflatus. 
I  mustered  resolution  enough,  however,  to  write 
spiritedly  to  them :  their  answer  in  the  ensuing 
number  was  a  tacit  acknowledgment  that  they 
had  been  somewhat  too  unsparing  in  their  correc- 
tion. It  was  a  poor  attempt  to  salve  over  a  wound 
wantonly  and  most  ungenerously  inflicted.  Still 
I  was  damped,  because  I  knew  the  work  was  very 
respectable  ;  and  therefore  could  not,  I  concluded, 
give  a  criticism  grossly  deficient  in  equity — the 
more  especially,  as  I  knew  of  no  sort  of  induce- 
ment to  extraordinary  severity.  Your  letter, 
however,  has  revived  me,  and  I  do  again  venture 
to  hope  that  I  may  still  produce  something  which 
will  survive  me. 

"  With  regard  to  your  advice  and  offers  of  as- 


HENKY   KIRKE    WHITE.  79 

sistance,  I  will  not  attempt,  because  I  am  unable, 
to  thank  you  for  them.  To-morrow  morning  I  de- 
part for  Cambridge ;  and  I  have  considerable  hopes 
that,  as  I  do  not  enter  into  the  University  with  any 
sinister  or  interested  views,  but  sincerely  desire  to 
perform  the  duties  of  an  affectionate  and  vigilant 
pastor,  and  become  more  useful  to  mankind,  I 
therefore  have  hopes,  I  say,  that  I  shall  find  means 
of  support  in  the  University.  If  I  do  not,  I  shall 
certainly  act  in  pursuance  of  your  recommenda- 
tions ;  and  shall,  without  hesitation,  avail  myself 
of  your  offers  of  service,  and  of  your  directions. 

"  In  a  short  time  this  will  be  determined ;  and 
when  it  is,  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  writing  to 
you  at  Keswick,  to  make  you  acquainted  with  the 
result. 

"  I  have  only  one  objection  to  publishing  by 
subscription, and  1  confess  it  has  weight  with  me ; — 
it  is,  that,  in  this  step,  I  shall  seem  to  be  acting 
upon  the  advice  so  unfeelingly  and  contumeliously 
given  by  the  Monthly  Reviewers,  who  say  what 
is  equal  to  this — that  had  I  gotten  a  subscription 
for  my  poems  before  their  merit  was  known,  I 
might  have  succeeded;  provided,  it  seems,  I  had 
made  a  particular  statement  of  my  case  ;  like  a 
beggar  who  stands  with  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and 
a  full  account  of  his  cruel  treatment  on  the  coast 
of  Barbary  in  the  other,  and  so  gives  you  his  pen- 
ny sheet  for  your  sixpence,  by  way  of  half-pur- 
chase, half-charity. 

"  I  have  materials  for  another  volume  ;  but  they 
were  written  principally  while  Clifton  Grove  was 


80  LIFE    OF 

in  the  press,  or  soon  after,  and  do  not  now  at  all 
satisfy  me.  Indeed,  of  late,  I  have  been  obliged 
to  desist,  almost  entirely,  from  converse  with  the 
dames  of  Helicon.  The  drudgery  of  an  attorney's 
office,  and  the  necessity  of  preparing  myself,  in 
case  I  should  succeed  in  getting  to  college,  in  what 
little  leisure  I  could  boast,  left  no  room  for  the 
flights  of  the  imagination." 

In  another  letter  he  speaks,  in  still  stronger  terms, 
of  what  he  had  suffered  from  the  unfeeling  and 
iniquitous  criticism : 

«  The  unfavourable  review  (in  the  <  Monthly') 
of  my  unhappy  work,  has  cut  deeper  than  you 
could  have  thought;  not  in  a  literary  point  of  view, 
but  as  it  affects  my  respectability.  It  represents 
me  actually  as  a  beggar,  going  about  gathering 
money  to  put  myself  at  college,  when  my  work  is 
worthless ;  and  this  with  every  appearance  of 
candor.  They  have  been  sadly  misinformed  re- 
specting me :  this  review  goes  before  me  wherever 
I  turn  my  steps  :  it  haunts  me  incessantly  ;  and  I 
am  persuaded  it  is  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of 
Satan  to  drive  me  to  distraction.  I  must  leave 
Nottingham." 

It  is  not  unworthy  of  remark,  that  this  very  re- 
viewal,  which  was  designed  to  crush  the  hopes  of 
Henry,  and  suppress  his  struggling  genius,  has 
been,  in  its  consequences,  the  main  occasion  of 
bringing  his  Remains  to  light,  and  obtaining  for 
him  that  fame  which  assuredly  will  be  his  portion. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  indignation  which  I  felt 
at  perusing  a  criticism  at  once  so  cruel  and  so 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  81 

stupid,  the  little  intercourse  between  Henry  and 
myself  would  not  have  taken  place ;  his  papers 
would  probably  have  remained  in  oblivion,  and 
his  name  in  a  few  years  have  been  forgotten. 

I  have  stated  that  his  opinions  were,  at  one  time, 
inclining  towards  deism :  it  needs  not  be  said  on 
what  slight  grounds  the  opinions  of  a  youth  must 
needs  be  founded :  while  they  are  confined  to  mat- 
ters of  speculation,  they  indicate,  whatever  their 
eccentricities,  only  an  active  mind ;  and  it  is  only 
when  a  propensity  is  manifested  to  such  principles 
as  give  a  sanction  to  immorality,  that  they  show 
something  wrong  at  heart.  One  little  poem  of 
Henry's  Remains,  which  was  written  in  this  un- 
settled state  of  mind,  exhibits  much  of  his  char- 
acter, and  can  excite  no  feelings  towards  him,  but 
such  as  are  favourable.  (See  "  My  own  Charac- 
ter," page  329.) 

At  this  time,  when  Henry  doubted  the  truth  of 
Christianity,  and  professed  a  careless  indifference 
concerning  it  which  he  was  far  from  feeling,  it 
happened  that  one  of  his  earliest  and  most  intimate 
friends,  Mr.  Almond,  was  accidentally  present  at 
a  death-bed,  and  was  so  struck  with  what  he  then 
saw  of  the  power  and  influence,  and  inestimable 
value  of  religion,  that  he  formed  a  firm  determina- 
tion to  renounce  all  such  pursuits  as  were  not 
strictly  compatible  with  it.  That  he  might  not  be 
shakeri  in  this  resolution,  he  withdrew  from  the 
society  of  all  those  persons  whose  ridicule  or  cen- 
sure he  feared;  and  was  particularly  careful  to 
avoid  Henry,  of  whose  raillery  he  stood  most  in 


82  LIFE    OF 

dread.  He  anxiously  shunned  him,  therefore ; 
till  Henry,  who  would  not  suffer  an  intimacy  of 
long  standing  to  be  broken  off  he  knew  not  why, 
called  upon  his  friend,  and  desired  to  know  the 
cause  of  this  unaccountable  conduct  towards  him- 
self and  their  common  acquaintance. 

Mr.  Almond,  who  had  received  him  with  trem- 
bling and  reluctance,  replied  to  this  expostulation, 
that  a  total  change  had  been  effected  in  his  reli- 
gious views,  and  that  he  was  prepared  to  defend 
his  opinions  and  conduct,  if  Henry  would  allow 
the  Bible  to  be  the  word  of  truth  and  the  standard 
of  appeal.  Upon  this  Henry  exclaimed  in  a  tone 
of  strong  emotion  : — "Good  God,  you  surely  re- 
gard me  in  a  worse  light  than  I  deserve  !" — His 
friend  proceeded  to  say,  that  what  he  had  said  was 
from  a  conviction  that  they  had  no  common  ground 
on  which  to  contend,  Henry  having  more  than 
once  suggested,  that  the  book  of  Isaiah  was  an 
epic,  and  that  of  Job  a  dramatic,  poem.  He  then 
stated  what  the  change  was  which  had  taken  place 
in  his  own  views  and  intentions,  and  the  motives 
for  his  present  conduct.  From  the  manner  in 
which  Henry  listened,  it  became  evident  that  his 
mind  was  ill  at  ease,  and  that  he  was  noways 
satisfied  with  himself.  His  friend,  therefore,  who 
had  expected  to  be  assailed  in  a  tone  of  triumphant 
superiority  by  one  in  the  pride  and  youthful  con- 
fidence of  great  intellectual  powers,  and,  as  yet, 
ignorant  of  his  own  ignorance,  found  himself  un- 
expectedly called  upon  to  act  the  monitor ;  and, 
putting  into  his  hands  Scott's  «  Force  of  Truth," 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  83 

which  was  lying  on  the  table,  entreated  him  to 
take  it  with  him,  and  peruse  it  at  his  leisure. 

The  book  produced  little  effect,  and  was  return- 
ed with  disapprobation.  Men  differ  as  much  in 
mind  as  in  countenance  :  some  are  to  be  awaken- 
ed by  passionate  exhortation,  or  vehement  reproof, 
appealing  to  their  fears  and  exciting  their  imagi- 
nation ;  others  yield  to  force  of  argument,  or,  upon 
slow  inquiry,  to  the  accumulation  of  historical  tes- 
timony and  moral  proofs ;  there  are  others,  in 
whom  the  innate  principle  of  our  nature  retains 
more  of  its  original  strength,  and  these  are  led  by 
their  inward  monitor  into  the  way  of  peace.  Hen- 
ry was  of  this  class.  His  intellect  might  have 
been  on  the  watch  to  detect  a  flaw  in  evidence,  a 
defective  argument,  or  an  illogical  inference  ;  but, 
in  his  heart,  he  felt  that  there  is  no  happiness,  no 
rest,  without  religion ;  and  in  him  who  becomes 
willing  to  believe,  the  root  of  infidelity  is  destroy- 
ed. Mr.  Almond  was  about  to  enter  at  Cambridge : 
on  the  evening  before  his  departure  for  the  Uni- 
versity, Henry  requested  that  he  would  accompa- 
ny him  to  the  little  room,  which  was  called  his 
study.  "  We  had  no  sooner  entered,"  says  Mr. 
Almond,  "  than  he  burst  into  tears,  and  declared 
that  his  anguish  of  mind  was  insupportable.  He  en- 
treated that  I  would  kneel  down  and  pray  for  him ; 
and  most  cordially  were  our  tears  and  supplications 
mingled  at  that  interesting  moment.  When  I  took 
my  leave,  he  exclaimed  : — «  What  must  I  do  ? — • 
You  are  the  only  friend  to  whom  I  can  apply  in 
this  agonizing  state,  and  you  are  about  to  leave 


84  LIFE    OF 

me.  My  literary  associates  are  all  inclined  to 
deism;  I  have  no  one  with  whom  I  can  communi- 
cate !" 

A  new  pursuit  was  thus  opened  to  him,  and  he 
engaged  in  it  with  his  wonted  ardour.  "  It  was  a 
constant  feature  in  his  mind,"  says  Mr.  Pigott, « to 
persevere  in  the  pursuit  of  what  he  deemed  noble 
and  important.  Religion,  in  which  he  now  ap- 
peared to  himself  not  yet  to  have  taken  a  step,  en- 
gaged all  his  anxiety,  as  of  all  concerns  the  most 
important.  He  could  not  rest  satisfied  till  he  had 
formed  his  principles  upon  the  basis  of  Christianity, 
and  till  he  had  begun  in  earnest  to  think  and  act 
agreeably  to  its  pure  and  heavenly  precepts.  His 
mind  loved  to  make  distant  excursions  into  the 
future  and  remote  consequences  of  things.  He  no 
longer  limited  his  views  to  the  narrow  confines  of 
earthly  existence ;  he  was  not  happy  till  he  had 
learnt  to  rest  and  expatiate  in  a  world  to  come. 
What  he  said  to  me  when  we  became  intimate  is 
worthy  of  observation  :  that,  he  said,  which  first 
made  him  dissatisfied  with  the  creed  he  had  adopt- 
ed, and  the  standard  of  practice  which  he  had  set 
up  for  himself,  was  the  purity  of  mind  which  he 
perceived  was  everywhere  inculcated  in  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  and  required  of  every  one  who  would 
become  a  successful  candidate  for  future  blessed- 
ness. He  had  supposed  that  morality  of  conduct 
was  all  the  purity  required  ;  but  when  he  observed 
that  purity  of  the  very  thoughts  and  intentions 
of  the  soul  also  was  requisite,  he  was  convinced 
of  his  deficiencies,  and  could  find  no  comfort  to  his 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  85 

penitence  but  in  the  atonement  made  for  human 
frailty  by  the  Redeemer  of  mankind ;  and  no 
strength  adequate  to  his  weakness,  and  sufficient 
for  resisting  evil,  but  the  aid  of  God's  Spirit,  pro- 
mised to  those  who  seek  such  from  above  in  the 
sincerity  of  earnest  prayer." 

From  the  moment  when  he  had  fully  contracted 
these  opinions,  he  was  resolved  upon  devoting  his 
life  to  the  promulgation  of  them ;  and  therefore  to 
leave  the  law,  and,  if  possible,  place  himself  at 
one  of  the  universities.  Every  argument  was  used 
by  his  friends  to  dissuade  him  from  his  purpose, 
but  to  no  effect ;  his  mind  was  unalterably  fixed, 
and  great  and  numerous  as  the  obstacles  were,  he 
was  determined  to  surmount  them  all.  He  had 
now  served  the  better  half  of  the  term  for  which 
he  was  articled :  his  entrance  and  continuance  in 
the  profession  had  been  a  great  expense  to  his 
family ;  and  to  give  up  this  lucrative  profession, 
in  the  study  of  which  he  had  advanced  so  far,  and 
situated  as  he  was,  for  one  wherein  there  was  so 
little  prospect  of  his  obtaining  even  a  decent  com- 
petency, appeared  to  them  the  height  of  folly  or 
of  madness.  This  determination  cost  his  poor 
mother  many  tears ;  but  determined  he  was,  and 
that  by  the  best  and  purest  motives.  Without 
ambition  he  could  not  have  existed ;  but  his  ambi- 
tion now  was  to  be  eminently  useful  in  the  min- 
istry. 

It  was  Henry's  fortune  through  his  short  life,  as 
he  was  worthy  of  the  kindest  treatment,  always 
to  find  it.  His  employers,  Mr.  Coldham  and  Mr. 
8 


86  LIFE  or 

Enfield,  listened  with  a  friendly  ear  to  his  plans, 
and  agreed  to  give  up  the  remainder  of  his  time, 
though  it  was  now  become  very  valuable  to  them, 
as  soon  as  they  should  think  his  prospects  of  get- 
ting through  the  university  were  such  as  he  might 
reasonably  trust  to  ;  but,  till  then,  they  felt  them- 
selves bound,  for  his  own  sake,  to  detain  him. 
Mr.  Dashwood,  a  clergyman,  who  at  that  time  re- 
sided in  Nottingham,  exerted  himself  in  his  favour: 
he  had  a  friend  at  Queen's  College,  Cambridge, 
who  mentioned  him  to  one  of  the  fellows  of  St. 
John's,  and  that  gentleman,  on  the  representations 
made  to  him  of  Henry's  talents  and  piety,  spared 
no  effort  to  obtain  for  him  an  adequate  support. 

As  soon  as  these  hopes  were  held  out  to  him, 
his  employers  gave  him  a  month's  leave  of  ab- 
sence, for  the  benefit  of  uninterrupted  study,  and 
of  change  of  air,  which  his  health  now  began  to 
require.  Instead  of  going  to  the  sea-coast,  as  was 
expected,  he  chose  for  his  retreat  the  village  of 
Wilford,  which  is  situated  on  the  banks  of  the 
Trent,  and  at  the  foot  of  Clifton  Woods.  These 
woods  had  ever  been  his  favourite  place  of  resort, 
and  were  the  subject  of  the  longest  poem  in  his 
little  volume,  from  which,  indeed,  the  volume  was 
named.  He  delighted  to  point  out  to  his  more  in- 
timate friends  the  scenery  of  this  poem  :  the  islet 
to  which  he  had  often  forded  when  the  river  was  not 
knee-deep  ;  and  the  little  hut  wherein  he  had  sat 
for  hours,  and  sometimes  all  day  long,  reading  or 
writing,  or  dreaming  with  his  eyes  open.  He  had 
sometimes  wandered  in  these  woods  till  night  was 


HENRY   KIRKE    WHITE.  87 

far  advanced,  and  used  to  speak  with  pleasure  of 
having  once  been  overtaken  there  by  a  thunder- 
storm at  midnight,  and  watching  the  lightning  over 
the  river  and  the  vale  towards  the  town. 

In  this  village  his  mother  procured  lodgings  for 
him,  and  his  place  of  retreat  was  kept  secret,  ex- 
cept from  his  nearest  friends.  Soon  after  the  ex- 
piration of  the  month,  intelligence  arrived  that  the 
plans  which  had  been  formed  in  his  behalf  had 
entirely  failed.  He  went  immediately  to  his  mo- 
ther :  "  All  my  hopes,"  said  he,  "  of  getting  to  the 
University  are  now  blasted ;  in  preparing  myself 
for  it,  I  have  lost  time  in  my  profession ;  I  have 
much  ground  to  get  up ;  and  as  I  am  determined 
not  to  be  a  mediocre  attorney,  I  must  endeavour  to 
recover  what  I  have  lost."  The  consequence  was, 
that  he  applied  himself  more  severely  than  ever 
to  his  studies.  He  now  allowed  himself  no  time 
for  relaxation,  little  for  his  meals,  and  scarcely  any 
for  sleep.  He  would  read  till  one,  two,  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning ;  then  throw  himself  on  the 
bed,  and  rise  again  to  his  work  at  five,  at  the  call 
of  a  larum,  which  he  had  fixed  to  a  Dutch  clock 
in  his  chamber.  Many  nights  he  never  lay  down 
at  all.  It  was  in  vain  that  his  mother  used  every 
possible  means  to  dissuade  him  from  this  destruc- 
tive application.  In  this  respect,  and  in  this  only 
one,  was  Henry  undutiful,  and  neither  commands, 
nor  tears,  nor  entreaties,  could  check  his  desperate 
and  deadly  ardor.  At  one  time  she  went  every 
night  into  his  room,  to  put  out  his  candle :  as  soon 
as  he  heard  her  coming  up  stairs,  he  used  to  hide 


88  LIFE    OP 

it  in  a  cupboard,  throw  himself  into  bed,  and 
affect  sleep  while  she  was  in  the  room ;  then,  when 
all  was  quiet,  rise  again,  and  pursue  his  baneful 
studies. 

"  The  night,"  says  Henry,  in  one  of  his  letters, 
«  has  been  every  thing  to  me ;  and  did  the  world 
know  how  I  have  been  indebted  to  the  hours  of 
repose,  they  would  not  wonder  that  night-images 
are,  as  they  judge,  so  ridiculously  predominant  in 
my  verses."  During  some  of  these  midnight 
hours  he  indulged  himself  in  complaining,  but  in 
such  complaints  that  it  is  to  be  wished  more  of 
them  had  been  found  among  his  papers. 

ODE  ON  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Not  in  thy  terrors  clad  ; 
Come  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  guise  ; 
Thy  chastening  rod  but  terrifies 
The  restless  and  the  bad : 
But  I  recline 
Beneath  thy  shrine, 
And  round  my  brow,  resign'd,  thy  peaceful  cypress  twine. 

Though  Fancy  flies  away 
Before  thy  hollow  tread, 
Yet  Meditation,  in  her  cell, 
Hears,  with  faint  eye,  the  lingering  knell, 
That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead  ; 
And  though  the  tear 
By  chance  appear, 
Yet  she  can  smile,  and  say,  My  all  was  not  laid  here. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 
Though  from  Hope's  summit  hurl'd, 


HENRY   KIRKE    WHITE.  89 

Still,  rigid  Nurse,  thou  art  forgiven, 
For  thou  severe  wert  sent  from  heaven 
To  wean  me  from  the  world  : 
To  turn  my  eye 
From  vanity, 
And  point  to  scenes  of  bliss  that  never,  never  die. 

What  is  this  passing  scene  1 

A  peevish  April  day ! 
A  little  sun — a  little  rain, 
And  then  night  sweeps  along  the  plain, 
And  all  things  fade  away. 
Man  (soon  discuss'd) 
Yields  up  his  trust, 
And  all  his  hopes  and  fears  lie  with  him  in  the  dust. 

Oh,  what  is  beauty's  power? 

It  flourishes  and  dies ; 
Will  the  cold  earth  its  silence  break 
To  tell  how  soft,  how  smooth  a  cheek 
Beneath  its  surface  lies] 
Mute,  mute  is  all 
O'er  beauty's  fall ; 
Her  praise  resounds  no  more  when  mantled  in  her  palL 

The  most  beloved  on  earth 

Not  long  survives  to-day  ; 
So  music  past  is  obsolete, 
And  yet  'twas  sweet,  'twas  passing  sweet, 
But  now  'tis  gone  away. 
Thus  does  the  shade 
In  memory  fade, 
When  in  forsaken  tomb  the  form  beloved  ia  laid. 

Then  since  the  world  is  vain, 

And  volatile  and  fleet, 
Why  should  I  lay  up  earthly  joys, 
Where  rust  corrupts,  and  moth  destroys, 
8  * 


90  LIFE    OP 

And  cares  and  sorrows  eat  1 
Why  fly  from  ill 
With  anxious  skill, 
When  soon  this  hand  will  freeze,  this  throbbing  heart  be  still. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Thou  art  not  stern  to  me ; 
Sad  Monitress !  I  own  thy  sway, 
A  votary  sad  in  early  day, 
I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
From  sun  to  sun 
My  race  will  run, 
I  only  bow,  and  say,  My  God,  thy  will  be  done  ! 

On  another  paper  are  a  few  lines,  written  pro- 
bably in  the  freshness  of  his  disappointment. 

I  dream  no  more — the  vision  flies  away, 

And  Disappointment    * 

There  fell  my  hopes — I  lost  my  all  in  this, 

My  cherish'd  all  of  visionary  bliss. 

Now  hope  farewell,  farewell  all  joys  below  ; 

Now  welcome  sorrow,  and  now  welcome  woe 

Plunge  me  in  glooms    *    *    *    * 

His  health  soon  sunk  under  these  habits :  he  be- 
came pale  and  thin,  and  at  length  had  a  sharp  fit 
of  sickness.  On  his  recovery  he  wrote  the  beau- 
tiful "  Lines  written  in  Wilford  church-yard  on  re- 
covery from  sickness."  See  page  334. 

His  friends  are  of  opinion  that  he  never  tho- 
roughly recovered  from  the  shock  which  his  con- 
stitution then  sustained.  Many  of  his  poems  in- 
dicate that  he  thought  himself  in  danger  of  con- 
sumption ;  he  was  not  aware  that  he  was  genera- 


HENRY   KIRKE    WHITE.  91 

ting  or  fostering  in  himself  another  disease  little 
Jess  dreadful,  and  which  threatens  intellect  as  well 
as  life.  At  this  time  youth  was  in  his  favour,  and 
his  hopes,  which  were  now  again  renewed,  pro- 
duced perhaps  a  better  effect  than  medicine.  Mr. 
Dashwood  obtained  for  him  an  introduction  to  Mr. 
Simeon,  of  King's  College,  and  with  this  he  was 
induced  to  go  to  Cambridge.  His  friend  Almond, 
who  had  recently  entered  at  Trinity  College,  had 
already  endeavoured  to  interest  in  his  behalf  some 
persons  who  might  be  able  to  assist  him  in  the 
great  object  of  his  desire,  that  of  passing  through 
the  University,  and  qualifying  himself  for  holy 
orders.  It  is  neither  to  be  wondered  at,  nor  cen- 
sured, that  his  representations,  where  he  had  an 
opportunity  of  making  them,  were  for  the  most 
part  coldly  received.  They  who  have  been  most 
conversant  with  youth  best  understand  how  little 
the  promises  of  early  genius  are  to  be  relied  upon : 
it  is  among  the  mortifying  truths  which  we  learn 
from  experience,  and  no  common  spirit  of  benevo- 
lence is  required  to  overcome  the  chilling  effect  of 
repeated  disappointments.  He  found,  however, 
encouragement  from  two  persons,  whose  names 
have  since  become  well  known.  Mr.  Dealtry, 
then  one  of  the  mathematical  lecturers  at  Trinity, 
was  one.  This  gentleman,  whom  the  love  of  the 
abstract  sciences  had  not  rendered  intolerant  of 
other  pursuits  more  congenial  to  youthful  imagi- 
nations, consented  to  look  at  Henry's  poem  of 
"  Time,"  a  manuscript  of  which  was  in  Almond's 
possession.  The  perusal  interested  him  greatly : 


92  LIFE    OF 

he  entered  with  his  wonted  benignity  into  the  con 
cerns  of  the  author :  and  would  gladly  have  be- 
friended him,  if  the  requisite  assistance  had  not 
just  at  that  time  been  secured  from  other  quarters. 
The  other  person  in  whom  Mr.  Almond  excited 
an  interest  for  his  friend  was  Henry  Martyn, 
who  has  since  sacrificed  his  life  in  the  missionary 
service :  he  was  then  only  a  few  years  older  than 
Henry ;  equally  ardent,  equally  devout,  equally 
enthusiastic.  He  heard  with  emotion  of  this  kin- 
dred spirit ;  read  some  of  his  letters,  and  under- 
took to  enter  his  name  upon  the  boards  of  St. 
John's,  (of  which  college  he  was  a  fellow,)  saying 
that  a  friend  in  London,  whose  name  he  was  not 
at  liberty  to  communicate,  had  empowered  him  to 
assist  any  deserving  young  man  with  thirty  pounds 
a  year  during  his  stay  at  the  University.  To  in- 
sure success,  one  of  Henry's  letters  was  transmitted 
to  this  unknown  friend ;  and  Martyn  was  not  a 
little  surprised  and  grieved,  to  learn  in  reply,  that 
a  passage  in  that  letter  seemed  to  render  it  doubt- 
ful whether  the  writer  were  a  Churchman  or  a 
Dissenter ;  and,  therefore,  occasioned  a  demur  as 
to  the  propriety  of  assisting  him.  Just  at  this 
time  Henry  arrived  at  Cambridge,  with  an  intro- 
duction to  Mr.  Simeon.  That  gentleman,  being 
in  correspondence  with  Martyn's  friend  in  London, 
expressed  displeasure  at  his  arrival ;  but  the  first 
interview  removed  all  objection.  Mr.  Simeon, 
from  Mr.  Dashwood's  recommendation,  and  from 
what  he  saw  of  his  principles  and  talents,  pro- 
mised to  procure  for  him  a  sizarship  at  St.  John's, 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  93 

and,  with  the  additional  aid  of  a  friend,  to  supply 
him  with  30/.  annually.  His  brother  Neville  pro- 
mised twenty ;  and  his  mother,  it  was  hoped, 
would  be  able  to  allow  fifteen  or  twenty  more. 
With  this,  it  was  thought,  he  could  go  through 
college.  If  this  prospect  had  not  been  opened  to 
him,  he  would  probably  have  turned  his  thoughts 
towards  the  orthodox  Dissenters. 

On  his  return  to  Nottingham,  the  Rev. 

Robinson  of  Leicester,  and  some  other  friends,  ad- 
vised him  to  apply  to  the  Elland  Society  for  assist- 
ance, conceiving  that  it  would  be  less  oppressive 
to  his  feelings  to  be  dependent  on  a  Society  insti- 
tuted for  the  express  purpose  of  training  up  such 
young  men  as  himself  (that  is,  such  in  circumstan- 
ces and  opinions)  for  the  ministry,  than  on  the 
bounty  of  an  individual.  In  consequence  of  this 
advice  he  went  to  Elland  at  the  next  meeting  of 
the  Society,  a  stranger  there,  and  without  one 
friend  among  the  members.  He  was  examined, 
for  several  hours,  by  about  five-and-twenty  clergy- 
men, as  to  his  religious  views  and  sentiments,  his 
theological  knowledge,  and  his  classical  attain- 
ments. In  the  course  of  the  inquiry  it  appeared 
that  he  had  published  a  volume  of  poems  :  their 
questions  now  began  to  be  very  unpleasantly  in- 
quisitive concerning  the  nature  of  these  poems,  and 
he  was  assailed  by  queries  from  all  quarters.  It 
was  well  for  Henry  that  they  did  not  think  of  re- 
ferring to  the  Monthly  Review  for  authority.  My 
letter  to  him  happened  to  be  in  his  pocket;  he 
luckily  recollected  this,  and  produced  it  as  a  testi- 


94  LIFE    OF 

mony  in  his  favour.  They  did  me  the  honour  to 
say  that  it  was  quite  sufficient,  and  pursued  this 
part  of  their  inquiry  no  farther.  Before  he  left 
Ellarid,  he  was  given  to  understand,  that  they 
were  well  satisfied  with  his  theological  knowledge ; 
that  they  thought  his  classical  proficiency  prodi- 
gious for  his  age,  and  that  they  had  placed  him  on 
their  books.  He  returned  little  pleased  with  his 
journey.  His  friends  had  been  mistaken:  the 
bounty  of  an  individual  calls  forth  a  sense  of  kind- 
ness as  well  as  of  dependence ;  that  of  a  Society 
has  the  virtue  of  charity,  perhaps,  but  it  wants  the 
grace.  He  now  wrote  to  Mr.  Simeon,  stating 
what  he  had  done,  and  that  the  beneficence  of  his 
unknown  friends  was  no  longer  necessary:  but 
that  gentleman  obliged  him  to  decline  the  assist- 
ance of  the  Society,  which  he  very  willingly  did. 
This  being  finally  arranged,  he  quitted  his  em- 
ployers in  October,  1804.  How  much  he  had  con- 
ducted himself  to  their  satisfaction,  will  appear  by 
this  testimony  of  Mr.  Enfield,  to  his  diligence  and 
uniform  worth.  "  I  have  great  pleasure,"  says 
this  gentleman,  "in  paying  the  tribute  to  his 
memory  of  expressing  the  knowledge  which  was 
afforded  me  during  the  period  of  his  connexion  with 
Mr.  Coldham  and  myself,  of  his  diligent  applica- 
tion, his  ardor  for  study,  and  his  virtuous  and 
amiable  disposition.  He  very  soon  discovered  an 
unusual  aptness  in  comprehending  the  routine  of 
business,  and  great  ability  and  rapidity  in  the  exe- 
cution of  every  thing  which  was  intrusted  to  him. 
His  diligence  and  punctual  attention  were  unre- 


HENRY   KIREE    WHITE.  95 

milled,  and  his  services  became  extremely  valua- 
ble, a  considerable  time  before  he  left  us.  He 
seemed  to  me  to  have  no  relish  for  the  ordinary 
pleasures  and  dissipations  of  young  men ;  his  mind 
was  perpetually  employed,  either  in  the  business 
of  his  profession,  or  in  private  study.  With  his 
fondness  for  literature  we  were  well  acquainted, 
but  had  no  reason  to  offer  any  check  to  it,  for  he 
never  permitted  the  indulgence  of  his  literary  pur- 
suits to  interfere  with  the  engagements  of  business. 
The  difficulty  of  hearing,  under  which  he  labour- 
ed, was  distressing  to  him  in  the  practice  of  his 
profession,  and  was,  I  think,  an  inducement,  in  co- 
operation with  his  other  inclinations,  for  his  re- 
solving to  relinquish  the  law.  I  can,  with  truth, 
assert,  that  his  determination  was  matter  of  serious 
regret  to  my  partner  and  myself." 

I  may  here  add,  as  at  the  same  time  showing 
Henry's  aspirations  after  fame  and  the  principles 
by  which  he  had  learnt  to  regulate  his  ambition, 
that  on  the  cover  of  one  of  his  common-place  books 
he  had  written  these  mottoes : 

AAAA  TAP  E2TIN   MOT2A   KAI  HMIN. 

EBRIP.  Medea.  1091. 

Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds,) 
To  scorn  delight  and  live  laborious  days. 

MILTON'S  Lycidas,  70. 

Under  these  lines  was  placed  a  reference  to  the 
following  extract  (in  another  page,)  from  Barrow : 
«  The  Holy  Scripture  does  not  teach  us  to  slight 


96  LIFE    OP 

honour ;  but  rather,  in  its  fit  order  and  just  mea- 
sure, to  love  and  prove  it.  It  directs  us  not  to 
make  a  regard  thereto  our  chief  principle  ;  not  to 
propound  it  as  our  main  end  of  action.  It  charges 
us,  to  bear  contentedly  the  want  or  loss  thereof, 
as  of  other  temporal  goods ;  yea,  in  some  cases, 
for  conscience-sake,  or  for  God's  service  (that  is, 
for  a  good  incomparably  better,)  it  obliges  us  wil- 
lingly to  prostitute  and  sacrifice  it,  choosing  rather 
to  be  infamous  than  impious ;  in  disgrace  with  man, 
rather  than  in  disfavour  with  God.  It,  in  fine, 
commands  us  to  seek  and  embrace  it  only  in 
subordination,  and  with  final  reference  to  God's 
honour." 

Mr.  Simeon  had  advised  him  to  degrade  for  a 
year,  and  place  himself,  during  that  time,  under 
some  scholar.  He  went  accordingly  to  the  Rev. 

Grainger,  of  Winteringham,  in  Lincolnshire, 

and  there,  notwithstanding  all  the  entreaties  of  his 
friends,  pursuing  the  same  unrelenting  course  of 
study,  a  second  illness  was  the  consequence.  When 
he  was  recovering,  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  relax, 
to  ride  on  horseback,  and  to  drink  wine  :  these 
latter  remedies  he  could  not  long  afford,  and  he 
would  not  allow  himself  time  for  relaxation  when 
he  did  not  feel  its  immediate  necessity.  He  fre- 
quently, at  this  time,  studied  fourteen  hours  a-day  : 
the  progress  which  he  made  in  twelve  months  was 
indeed  astonishing.  When  he  went  to  Cambridge, 
he  was  immediately  as  much  distinguished  for  his 
classical  knowledge  as  his  genius :  but  the  seeds 
of  death  were  in  him,  and  the  place  to  which  he 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  97 

had  so  long  looked  on  with  hope,  served  unhap- 
pily as  a  hot-house  to  ripen  them.* 

During  his  first  term  one  of  the  university- 
scholarships  became  vacant,  and  Henry,  young  as 
he  was  in  college,  and  almost  self-taught,  was  ad- 
vised, by  those  who  were  best  able  to  estimate  his 
chance  of  success,  to  offer  himself  as  a  candidate 
for  it.  He  passed  the  whole  time  in  preparing 
himself  for  this,  reading  for  college  subjects  in  bed, 
in  his  walks,  or,  as  he  says,  where,  when,  and  how 
he  could,  never  having  a  moment  to  spare,  and 
often  going  to  his  tutor  without  having  read  at  all. 
His  strength  sunk  under  this,  and  though  he  had 
declared  himself  a  candidate,  he  was  compelled  to 
decline :  but  this  was  not  the  only  misfortune. 
The  general  college-examination  came  on  !  he  was 
utterly  unprepared  to  meet  it,  and  believed  that  a 
failure  here  would  have  ruined  his  prospects  for 
ever.  He  had  only  about  a  fortnight  to  read  what 
other  men  had  been  the  whole  term  reading. 
Once  more  he  exerted  himself  beyond  what  his 
shattered  health  could  bear :  the  disorder  returned; 
and  he  went  to  his  tutor,  Mr.  Catton,  with  tears 

*  During  his  residence  in  my  family,  says  Mr.  Grainger, 
his  conduct  was  highly  becoming,  and  suitable  to  a  Christian 
profession.  He  was  mild  and  inoffensive,  modest,  unassu- 
ming, and  affectionate.  He  attended,  with  great  cheerful- 
ness, a  Sunday  School  which  I  was  endeavouring  to  establish 
in  the  village  ;  and  was  at  considerable  pains  in  the  instruc- 
tion of  the  children:  and  I  have  repeatedly  observed,  that 
he  was  most  pleased,  and  most  edified,  with  such  of  my  ser- 
mons and  addresses  to  my  people  as  were  most  close,  plain, 
and  familiar.  When  we  parted,  we  parted  with  mutual  re- 
gret; and  by  us  his  name  will  long  be  remembered  with 
affection  and  delight. 

9 


98  LIFE    OP 

in  his  eyes,  and  told  him  that  he  could  not  go  into 
the  hall  to  be  examined.  Mr.  Catton,  however, 
thought  his  success  here  of  so  much  importance, 
that  he  exhorted  him,  with  all  possible  earnestness, 
to  hold  out  the  six  days  of  the  examination. 
Strong  medicines  were  given  him,  to  enable  him 
to  support  it ;  and  he  was  pronounced  the  first 
man  of  his  year.  But  life  was  the  price  which 
he  was  to  pay  for  such  honours  as  this ;  and  Hen- 
ry is  not  the  first  young  man  to  whom  such  ho- 
nours have  proved  fatal.  He  said  to  his  most  in- 
timate friend,  almost  the  last  time  he  saw  him, 
that  were  he  to  paint  a  picture  of  Fame  crowning 
a  distinguished  under-graduate,  after  the  Senate- 
house  examination,  he  would  represent  her  as 
concealing  a  death's-head  under  a  mask  of  beauty. 
When  this  was  over  he  went  to  London.  Lon- 
don was  a  new  scene  of  excitement, — and  what 
his  mind  required  was  tranquillity  and  rest.  Be- 
fore he  left  college,  he  had  become  anxious  con- 
cerning his  expenses,  fearing  that  they  exceeded 
his  means.  Mr.  Catton  perceived  this,  and  twice 
called  him  to  his  rooms,  to  assure  him  of  every 
necessary  support,  and  every  encouragement,  and 
to  give  him  every  hope.  This  kindness  relieved 
his  spirits  of  a  heavy  weight,  and  on  his  return  he 
relaxed  a  little  from  his  studies,  but  it  was  only  a 
little.  I  found  among  his  papers  the  day  thus 
planned  out : — "  Rise  at  half  past  five.  Devotions 
and  walk  till  seven.  Chapel  and  breakfast  till 
eight.  Study  and  lectures  till  one.  Four  and  a 
half  clear  reading.  Walk,  etc.  and  dinner,  and 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  99 

Wollaston,  and  chapel  to  six.  Six  to  nine,  read- 
ing— three  hours.  Nine  to  ten,  devotions.  Bed 
at  ten." 

Among  his  latest  writings  are  these  resolutions  : 
— "  I  will  never  be  in  bed  after  six. 
I  will  not  drink  tea  out  above  once  a  week,  except- 
ing on  Sundays,  unless  there  appear  some  good 
reason  for  so  doing. 

I  will  never  pass  a  day  without  reading  some  por- 
tion of  the  Scriptures. 

I  will  labour  diligently  in  my  mathematical  stu- 
dies, because  I  half  suspect  myself  of  a  dislike 
to  them. 

I  will  walk  two  hours  a  day,  upon  the  average 
of  every  week. 

Sit  mihi  gratia  addita  ad  hcec  facienda" 

About  this  time,  judging  by  the  handwriting, 
he  wrote  down  the  following  admonitory  sen- 
tences, which,  as  the  paper  on  which  they  are 
written  is  folded  into  the  shape  of  a  very  small 
book,  it  is  probable  he  carried  about  with  him  as 
a  manual. 

"  1.  Death  arid  judgment  are  near  at  hand. 

2.  Though  thy  bodily  part  be  now  in  health 
and  ease,  the  dews  of  death  will  soon  sit  upon 
thy  forehead. 

3.  That  which  seems  so  sweet  and  desirable  to 
thee  now,  will,  if  yielded  to,  become  bitterness  of 
soul  to  thee  all  thy  life  after. 

4.  When  the  waters  are  come  over  thy  soul, 


100  LIFE  or 

and  when,  in  the  midst  of  much  bodily  anguish, 
thou  distinguishes!  the  dim  shores  of  Eternity  be- 
fore thee,  what  wouldst  thou  not  give  to  be 
lighter  by  this  one  sin. 

5.  God  has  long  withheld  his  arm  ;  what  if  his 
forbearance  be  now  at  an  end  ?     Canst  thou  not 
contemplate  these  things  with  the  eyes  of  death  ? 
Art  thou  not  a  dying  man,  dying  every  day,  every 
hour  ? 

6.  Is  it  not  a  fearful  thing  to  shrink  from  the 
summons  when  it  comes  ? — to  turn  with  horror 
and  despair  from  the  future  being  ?     Think  what 
strains  of  joy  and  tranquillity  fall  on  the  ear  of 
the  saint  who  is  just  swooning  into  the  arms  of 
his  Redeemer :  what  fearful  shapes,  and  dreadful 
images  of  a  disturbed  conscience,  surround  the 
sinner's  bed,  when  the  last  twig  which  he  grasped 
fails  him,  and  the  gulf  yawns  to  receive  him  ! 

7.  Oh,  my  soul,  if  thou  art  yet  ignorant  of  the 
enormity  of  sin,  turn  thine  eyes  to  the  Man  who 
is  bleeding  to  death  on  the  cross !  See  how  the 
blood,  from  his  pierced  hands,  trickles  down  his 
arms,  and  the  more  copious  streams  from  his  feet 
run  on  the  accursed  tree,  and  stain  the  grass  with 
purple  !  Behold  his  features,  though  scarcely  ani- 
mated with  a  few  remaining  sparks  of  life,  yet 
how  full  of  love,  pity,  and  tranquillity  !  A  tear  is 
trickling  down  his  cheek,  and  his  lip  quivers. — 
He  is  praying  for  his  murderers  !  0,  my  soul !  it 
is  thy  Redeemer — it  is  thy  God !  And  this,  too, 
for  Sin — for  Sin !  and  wilt  thou  ever  again  sub- 
mit to  its  yoke  ? 


HENRY   KIRKE    WHITE.  101 

8.  Remember  that  the  grace  of  the  Holy  Spirit 
of  God  is  ready  to  save  thee  from  transgression. 
It  is  always  at  hand  :  thou  canst  not  sin  without 
wilfully  rejecting  its  aid. 

9.  And  is  there   real  pleasure  in  sin?     Thou 
knowest  there  is  not.     But  there  is  pleasure,  pure 
and  exquisite  pleasure,  in  holiness.     The  Holy 
Ghost  can  make  the  paths  of  religion  and  virtue, 
hard  as  they  seem,  and  thorny,  ways  of  pleasant- 
ness and  peace,  where,  though  there  be  thorns, 
yet  are  there  also  roses ;  and  where  all  the  wounds 
which  we  suffer  in  the  flesh,  from  the  hardness  of 
the  journey,  are  so  healed  by  the  balm  of  the 
Spirit,  that  they  rather  give  joy  than  pain." 

The  exercise  which  Henry  took  was  no  relaxa- 
tion :  he  still  continued  the  habit  of  studying 
while  he  walked ;  and  in  this  manner,  while  he 
was  at  Cambridge,  committed  to  memory  a  whole 
tragedy  of  Euripides.  Twice  he  distinguished 
himself  in  the  following  year,  being  again  pro- 
nounced first  at  the  great  college-examination,  and 
also  one  of  the  three  best  theme-writers  between 
whom  the  examiners  could  not  decide.  The  col- 
lege offered  him,  at  their  expense,  a  private  tutor 
in  mathematics  during  the  long  vacation  ;  and  Mr. 
Catton,  by  procuring  for  him  exhibitions  to  the 
amount  of  £66  per  annum,  enabled  him  to  give 
up  the  pecuniary  assistance  which  he  had  received 
from  Mr.  Simeon  and  other  friends.  This  inten- 
tion he  had  expressed  in  a  letter  written  twelve 
months  before  his  death.  "  With  regard  to  my 
college-expenses  (he  says,) I  have  the  pleasure  to 
9* 


102  LIFE    OF 

inform  you,  that  I  shall  be  obliged,  in  strict  recti- 
tude, to  waive  the  offers  of  many  of  my  friends. 
I  shall  not  even  need  the  sum  Mr.  Simeon  men- 
tioned after  the  first  year ;  and  it  is  not  impossible 
that  I  may  be  able  to  live  without  any  assistance 
at  all.  I  confess  I  feel  pleasure  at  the  thought  of 
this,  not  through  any  vain  pride  of  independence, 
but  because  I  shall  then  give  a  more  unbiassed 
testimony  to  the  truth,  than  if  I  were  supposed  to 
be  bound  to  it  by  any  ties  of  obligation  or  grati- 
tude. I  shall  always  feel  as  much  indebted  for 
intended  as  for  actually  afforded  assistance ;  and 
though  I  should  never  think  a  sense  of  thankful- 
ness an  oppressive  burden,  yet  I  shall  be  happy 
to  evince  it,  when,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  the 
obligation  to  it  has  been  discharged."  Never, 
perhaps,  had  any  young  man,  in  so  short  a  time, 
excited  such  expectations:  every  university- 
honour  was  thought  to  be  within  his  reach ;  he  was 
set  down  as  a  medallist,  and  expected  to  take  a 
senior  wrangler's  degree :  but  these  expectations 
were  poison  to  him;  they  goaded  him  to  fresh 
exertions  when  his  strength  was  spent.  His  sit- 
uation became  truly  miserable :  to  his  brother, 
and  to  his  mother,  he  wrote  always  that  he  had 
relaxed  in  his  studies,  and  that  he  was  better ;  al- 
ways holding  out  to  them  his  hopes,  and  his  good 
fortune ;  but  to  the  most  intimate  of  his  friends 
(Mr.  B.  Maddock,)  his  letters  told  a  different  tale: 
to  him  he  complained  of  dreadful  palpitations — • 
of  nights  of  sleeplessness  and  horror,  and  of  spirits 
depressed  to  the  very  depth  of  wretchedness,  so 


HENRY   KIRKE    WHITE.  103 

that  he  went  from  one  acquaintance  to  another, 
imploring  society,  even  as  a  starving  beggar  en- 
treats for  food.  Daring  the  course  of  this  sum- 
mer, it  was  expected  that  the  mastership  of  the 
free-school  at  Nottingham  would  shortly  become 
vacant.  A  relation  of  his  family  was  at  that  time 
mayor  of  the  town ;  he  suggested  to  them  what 
an  advantageous  situation  it  would  be  for  Henry, 
arri  offered  to  secure  for  him  the  necessary  inter- 
est. But  though  the  salary  and  emoluments  are 
estimated  at  from  £400  to  £600  per  annum,  Henry 
declined  the  offer ;  because,  had  he  accepted  it,  it 
would  have  frustrated  his  intentions  with  respect 
to  the  ministry.  This  was  certainly  no  common 
act  of  forbearance  in  one  so  situated  as  to  for- 
tune, especially  as  the  hope  which  he  had  most  at 
heart,  was  that  of  being  enabled  to  assist  his  family, 
and  in  some  degree  requite  the  care  and  anxiety 
of  his  father  and  mother,  by  making  them  com- 
fortable in  their  declining  years. 

The  indulgence  shown  him  by  his  college,  in 
providing  him  a  tutor  during  the  long  vacation, 
was  peculiarly  unfortunate.  His  only  chance  of 
life  was  from  relaxation,  and  home  was  the  only 
place  where  he  would  have  relaxed  to  any  pur- 
pose. Before  this  time  he  had  seemed  to  be  gain- 
ing strength  ;  it  failed  as  the  year  advanced :  he 
went  once  more  to  London  to  recruit  himself, — the 
worst  -place  to  which  he  could  have  gone :  the 
variety  of  stimulating  objects  there  hurried  and 
agitated  him ;  and  when  he  returned  to  college, 
he  was  so  completely  ill,  that  no  power  of  medicine 


104  LIFE    OP 

couM  save  him.  His  mind  was  worn  out ;  and  it 
was  the  opinion  of  his  medical  attendants,  that  if 
he  had  recovered,  his  intellect  would  have  been 
affected.  His  brother  Neville  was  just  at  this  time 
to  have  visited  him.  On  his  first  seizure,  Henry 
found  himself  too  ill  to  receive  him,  and  wrote  to 
say  so :  he  added,  with  that  anxious  tenderness 
towards  the  feelings  of  a  most  affectionate  family, 
which  always  appeared  in  his  letters,  that  he 
thought  himself  recovering;  but  his  disorder  in- 
creased so  rapidly,  that  this  letter  was  never  sent; 
it  was  found  in  his  pocket  after  his  decease.  One 
of  his  friends  wrote  to  acquaint  Neville  with  his 
danger:  he  hastened  down;  but  Henry  was 
delirious  when  he  arrived.  He  knew  him  only  for 
a  few  moments ;  the  next  day,  sunk  into  a  state 
of  stupor;  and  on  Sunday,  October  10th,  1806,  it 
pleased  God  to  remove  him  to  a  better  world,  and 
a  higher  state  of  existence. 

*  *  *  *  * 

THE  will  which  I  had  manifested  to  serve  Hen- 
ry, he  had  accepted  as  the  deed,  and  had  express- 
ed himself  upon  the  subject  in  terms  which  it 
would  have  humbled  me  to  read,  at  any  other  time 
than  when  I  was  performing  the  last  service  to  his 
memory.  On  his  decease,  Mr.  B.  Maddock  ad- 
dressed a  letter  to  me,  informing  me  of  the  event, 
as  one  who  had  professed  an  interest  in  his  friend's 
fortunes.  I  inquired,  in  my  reply,  if  there  was 
any  intention  of  publishing  what  he  might  have 
left,  and  if  I  could  be  of  any  assistance  in  the 
publication :  this  led  to  a  correspondence  with  his 


HENRT    KIRKE    WHITE.  105 

excellent  brother,  and  the  whole  of  his  papers 
were  consigned  into  my  hands,  with  as  many  of 
his  letters  as  could  be  collected. 

These  papers  (exclusive  of  the  correspondence) 
filled  a  box  of  considerable  size.  Mr.  Coleridge 
was  present  when  I  opened  them,  and  was,  as 
well  as  myself,  equally  affected  and  astonished  at 
the  proofs  of  industry  which  they  displayed. 
Some  of  them  had  been  written  before  his  hand 
was  formed,  probably  before  he  was  thirteen. 
There  were  papers  upon  law,upon  electricity,  upon 
chemistry,  upon  the  Latin  and  Greek  Languages, 
from  their  rudiments  to  the  higher  branches  of 
critical  study,  upon  history,  chronology,  divinity, 
the  fathers,  etc.  Nothing  seemed  to  have  escaped 
him.  His  poems  were  numerous :  among  the 
earliest  was  a  sonnet  addressed  to  myself,  long 
before  the  little  intercourse  which  had  subsisted 
between  us  had  taken  place.  Little  did  he  think, 
when  it  was  written,  on  what  occasion  it  would 
fall  into  my  hands.  He  had  begun  three  tragedies 
when  very  young;  one  was  upon  Boadicea, 
another  upon  Inez  de  Castro  :  the  third  was  a  ficti- 
tious subject.  He  had  planned  also  a  history  of 
Nottingham.  There  was  a  letter  upon  the  famous 
Nottingham  election,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
intended  either  for  the  newspapers,  or  for  a  sepa- 
rate pamphlet.  It  was  written  to  confute  the  ab- 
surd stories  of  the  Tree  of  Liberty,  and  the  God- 
dess of  Reason ;  with  the  most  minute  knowledge 
of  the  circumstances,  and  a  not  improper  feeling 
of  indignation  against  so  infamous  a  calumny ; 


106  LIFE    OF 

and  this  came  with  more  weight  from  him,  as  his 
party  iticlinitions  seemed  to  have  leaned  towards 
the  side  which  he  was  opposing.  This  was  his 
only  finished  composition  in  prose.  Much  of  his 
time,  Iatt3rly,  had  baen  devoted  to  the  study  of 
Greek  prosody :  he  had  begun  several  poems  in 
Greek,  and  a  translation  of  the  Sarnson  Agonistes. 
I  have  inspected  all  the  existing  manuscripts  of 
Chatterton,  and  they  excited  less  wonder  than 
these. 

Had  my  knowledge  of  Henry  terminated  here, 
I  should  have  hardly  believed  that  my  admiration 
and  regret  for  him  could  have  been  increased  ;  but 
I  hid  yet  to  learn  that  his  moral  qualities,  his 
good  sense,  and  his  whole  feelings,  were  as  admi- 
rable as  his  industry  and  genius.  All  his  letters 
to  his  family  have  been  communicated  to  me 
without  reserve,  arid  most  of  those  to  his  friends. 
They  make  him  his  own  biographer,  and  lay  open 
as  purs  and  as  excellent  a  heart  as  it  ever  pleased 
the  Almighty  to  warm  into  life. 

It  is  not  possible  to  conceive  a  human  being 
more  ainuble  in  all  the  relations  of  life.  He  was 
the  confidential  friend  and  adviser  of  every  mem- 
ber of  his  family :  this  he  instinctively  became ; 
and  the  thorough  good  sense  of  his  advice  is  not 
less  remarkable,  than  the  affection  with  which  it 
is  always  communicated.  To  his  mother  he  is  as 
earnest  in  beseeching  her  to  be  careful  of  her 
health,  as  he  is  in  labouring  to  convince  her  that 
his  own  complaints  were  abating:  his  letters  to 
her  are  always  of  hopes,  of  consolation,  and  of 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  107 

love.  To  Neville  he  writes  with  the  most  broth- 
erly intimacy,  still,  however,  in  that  occasional 
tone  of  advice  which  it  was  his  nature  to  assume, 
not  from  any  arrogance  of  superiority,  but  from 
earnestness  of  pure  affection  To  his  younger 
brother  he  addresses  himself  like  the  tenderest  and 
wisest  parent;  and  to  two  sisters,  then  too  young 
for  any  other  communication,  he  writes  to  direct 
their  studies,  to  inquire  into  their  progress,  to 
encourage  and  to  improve  them.  Such  letters  as 
these  are  not  for  the  public ;  but  they  to  whom 
they  are  addressed  will  lay  them  to  their  hearts 
like  relics,  and  will  find  in  them  a  saving  virtue, 
more  than  ever  relics  possessed 

With  regard  to  his  poems,  the  criterion  for  selec- 
tion was  not  so  plain  ;  undoubtedly  many  have 
been  chosen  which  he  himself  would  not  have 
published ;  and  some  few  which,  had  he  lived  to 
have  taken  that  rank  among  English  poets  which 
would  assuredly  have  been  within  his  reach,  1 
also  should  then  have  rejected  among  his  post- 
humous papers.  I  have,  however,  to  the  best  of 
my  judgment,  selected  none  which  does  not  either 
mark  the  state  of  his  mind,  or  its  progress,  or  dis- 
cover evident  proofs  of  what  he  would  have  been, 
if  it  had  not  been  the  will  of  Heaven  to  remove 
him  so  soon.  The  reader,  who  feels  any  admira- 
tion for  Henry,  will  take  some  interest  in  all  these 
Remains,  because  they  are  his:  he  who  shall  feel 
none  must  have  a  blind  heart,  and  therefore  a 
blind  understanding.  Such  poems  are  to  be  con- 
sidered as  making  up  his  history.  But  the  greater 


108  LIFE    OF 

number  are  of  such  beauty,  that  Chatterton  is 
the  only  youthful  poet  whom  he  does  not  leave 
far  behind  him. 

While  he  was  under  Mr.  Grainger  he  wrote  very 
little ;  and  when  he  went  to  Cambridge  he  was 
advised  to  stifle  his  poetical  fire,  for  severer  and 
more  important  studies;  to  lay  a  billet  on  the 
embers  until  he  had  taken  his  degree,  and  then  he 
might  fan  it  into  a  flame  again.  This  advice  he 
followed  so  scrupulously,  that  a  few  fragments, 
written  chiefly  upon  the  back  of  his  mathemati- 
cal papers,  are  all  which  he  produced  at  the  Uni- 
versity. The  greater  part,  therefore,  of  these 
poems,  indeed  nearly  the  whole  of  them,  were  writ- 
ten before  he  was  nineteen.  Wise  as  the  advice 
may  have  been  which  had  been  given  him,  it  is 
now  to  be  regretted  that  he  adhered  to  it,  his  lat- 
ter fragments  bearing  all  those  marks  of  improve- 
ment which  were  to  be  expected  from  a  mind  so 
rapidly  and  continually  progressive.  Frequently 
he  expresses  a  fear  that  early  death  would  rob 
him  of  his  fame ;  yet,  short  as  his  life  was,  it  has 
been  long  enough  for  him  to  leave  works  worthy 
of  remembrance.  The  very  circumstance  of  his 
early  death  gives  a  new  interest  to  his  memory, 
and  thereby  new  force  to  his  example.  Just  at 
that  age  when  the  painter  would  have  wished  to 
fix  his  likeness,  and  the  lover  of  poetry  would  de- 
light to  contemplate  him, — in  the  fair  morning  of 
his  virtues,  the  full  spring-blossom  of  his  hopes, — 
just  at  that  age  hath  death  set  the  seal  of  eternity 
upon  him,  and  the  beautiful  hath  been  made  per- 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  109 

manent.  To  the  young  poets  who  come  after  him, 
Henry  will  be  what  Chatterton  was  to  him ;  and 
they  will  find  in  him  an  example  of  hopes  with 
regard  to  worldly  fortune,  as  humble,  and  as  ex- 
alted in  all  better  things,  as  are  enjoined  equally 
by  wisdom  and  religion,  by  the  experience  of  man, 
and  the  word  of  God :  arid  this  example  will  be 
as  encouraging  as  it  is  excellent.  It  has  been  too 
much  the  custom  to  complain  that  genius  is 
neglected,  and  to  blame  the  public  when  the  public 
is  not  in  fault.  They  who  are  thus  lamented  as 
the  victims  of  genius,  have  been,  in  almost  every 
instance,  the  victims  of  their  own  vices;  while 
genius  has  been  made,  like  charity,  to  cover  a 
multitude  of  sins,  and  to  excuse  that  which  in 
reality  it  aggravates.  In  this  age,  and  in  this  coun- 
try, whoever  deserves  encouragement  is  sooner  or 
later,  sure  to  receive  it.  Of  this  Henry's  history 
is  an  honourable  proof.  The  particular  patronage 
which  he  accepted  was  given  as  much  to  his  piety 
and  religious  opinions  as  to  his  genius :  but  assist- 
ance was  offered  him  from  other  quarters.  Mr. 
P.  Thomson  (of  Boston,  Lincolnshire,)  merely 
upon  perusing  his  little  volume,  wrote  to  know 
how  he  could  serve  him ;  and  there  were  many 
friends  of  literature  who  were  ready  to  have 
afforded  him  any  support  which  he  needed,  if  he 
had  not  been  thus  provided.  In  the  University 
he  received  every  encouragement  which  he 
merited;  and  from  Mr.  Simeon,  and  his  tutor, 
Mr.  Catton,  the  most  fatherly  kindness. 

"  I  can  venture,"  says  a  lady  of  Cambridge,  in 
10 


110  LIFE    OF 

a  letter  to  his  brother, — "  I  can  venture  to  say, 
with  certainty,  there  was  no  member  of  the  Uni- 
versity, however  high  his  rank  or  talents,  who 
would  not  have  been  happy  to  have  availed  them- 
selves of  the  opportunity  of  being  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Henry  Kirke  White.  I  mention  this  to 
introduce  a  wish  which  has  been  expressed  to  me 
so  often  by  the  senior  members  of  the  University, 
that  I  dare  not  decline  the  task  they  have  imposed 
upon  me ;  it  is  their  hope  that  Mr.  Southey  will 
do  as  much  justice  to  Mr.  Henry  White's  limited 
wishes,  to  his  unassuming  pretensions,  and  to  his 
rational  and  fervent  piety,  as  to  his  various  ac- 
quirements, his  polished  taste,  his  poetical  fancy, 
his  undeviating  principles,  and  the  excellence  of 
his  moral  character :  and  that  he  will  suffer  it  to 
be  understood,  that  these  inestimable  qualities  had 
not  been  unobserved,  nor  would  they  have 
remained  unacknowledged.  It  was  the  general 
observation,  that  he  possessed  genius  without  its 
eccentricities."  Of  fervent  piety,  indeed,  his  let- 
ters, his  prayers,  and  his  hymns,  will  afford  ample 
and  interesting  proofs.  It  was  in  him  a  living  and 
quickening  principle  of  goodness,  which  sanctified 
all  his  hopes  and  all  his  affections ;  which  made 
him  keep  watch  over  his  own  heart,  and  enabled 
him  to  correct  the  few  symptoms,  which  it  ever 
displayed,  of  human  imperfection. 

His  temper  had  been  irritable  in  his  younger 
days ;  but  this  he  had  long  since  effectually  over- 
come :  the  marks  of  youthful  confidence,  which 
appear  in  his  earliest  letters,  had  also  disappeared  j 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE.  Ill 

and  it  was  impossible  for  any  man  to  be  more 
tenderly  patient  of  the  faults  of  others,  more 
uniformly  meek,  or  more  unaffectedly  humble.  He 
seldom  discovered  any  sportiveness  of  imagina- 
tion, though  he  would  very  ably  and  pleasantly 
rally  any  one  of  his  friends  for  any  little  peculi- 
arity ;  his  conversation  was  always  sober  and  to 
the  purpose.  That  which  is  most  remarkable  in 
him,  is  his  uniform  good  sense,  a  faculty  perhaps 
less  common  than  genius.  There  never  existed  a 
more  dutiful  son,  a  more  affectionate  brother,  a 
warmer  friend,  nor  a  devouter  Christian.  Of  his 
powers  of  mind  it  is  superfluous  to  speak;  they 
were  acknowledged  wherever  they  were  known. 
It  would  be  idle,  too,  to  say  what  hopes  were 
entertained  of  him,  and  what  he  might  have  accom- 
plished in  literature.  This  volume  contains  what 
he  has  left,  immature  buds  and  blossoms  shaken 
from  the  tree,  and  green  fruit ;  yet  will  they  evince 
what  the  harvest  would  have  been,  and  secure  for 
him  that  remembrance  upon  earth  for  which  he 
toiled. 

Thou  soul  of  God's  best  earthly  mould, 
Thou  happy  soul!  and  can  it  be 

That  these 

Are  all  that  must  remain  of  thee  ! 

WORDS  WOBTH. 
Keswick,  1807. 


CLIFTON  GROVE 

AND 

OTHER    POEMS, 

BY 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


10*  (1J3) 


TO   HER   GRACE 


DUCHESS    OF   DEVONSHIRE, 

THE  FOLLOWING  TRIPLING  EFFUSIONS 

OF    A    VEBT    YOUTHFUL    MUSE 
ABE    BY    PERMISSION    DEDICATED 

BY    HER    GRACE'S 

MUCH  OBLIGED  AND  GRATEFUL  SERVANT 

HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 

(114) 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  attempts  in  Verse  are  laid  before 
the  public  with  extreme  diffidence.  The  Author 
is  very  conscious  that  the  juvenile  efforts  of  a 
youth,  who  has  not  received  the  polish  of  Academ- 
ical discipline,  and  who  has  been  but  sparingly 
blessed  with  opportunities  for  the  prosecution  of 
scholastic  pursuits,  must  necessarily  be  defective 
in  the  accuracy  and  finished  elegance  which  mark 
the  works  of  the  man  who  has  passed  his  life  in 
the  retirement  of  his  study,  furnishing  his  mind 
with  images,  and  at  the  same  time  attaining  the 
power  of  disposing  those  images  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. 

The  unpremeditated  effusions  of  a  boy,  from 
his  thirteenth  year,  employed,  not  in  the  acquisi- 
tion of  literary  information,  but  in  the  more  active 
business  of  life,  must  not  be  expected  to  exhibit 
any  considerable  portion  of  the  correctness  of  a 
Virgil,  or  the  vigorous  compression  of  a  Horace. 
Men  are  not,  I  believe,  frequently  known  to  be- 
stow much  labour  on  their  amusements :  and  these 
Poems  were,  most  of  them,  written  merely  to  be- 
guile a  leisure  hour,  or  to  fill  up  the  languid  in- 
tervals of  studies  of  a  severer  nature. 

n«  TO  outuot  t^yn  aynvaie,  «  Every  one  loves  his  own 
work,"  says  the  Stagy  rite;  but  it  was  no  over- 
weening affection  of  this  kind  which  induced  this 
publication.  Had  the  author  relied  on  his  own 
judgment  only,  these  Poems  would  not,  in  all  pro- 
bability, ever  have  seen  the  light. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  asked  of  him,  what  are  his 
motives  for  this  publication  ?  He  answers — simply 

115 


116  PREFACE. 

these  :  The  facilitation,  through  its  means,  of  those 
studies  which,  from  his  earliest  infancy,  have  been 
the  principal  objects  of  his  ambition ;  and  the  in- 
crease of  the  capacity  to  pursue  those  inclinations 
which  may  one  day  place  him  in  an  honourable 
station  in  the  scale  of  society. 

The  principal  Poem  in  this  little  collection  (Clif- 
ton Grove)  is,  he  fears,  deficient  in  numbers  and 
harmonious  coherency  of  parts.  It  is,  however, 
merely  to  be  regarded  as  a  description  of  a  noc- 
turnal ramble  in  that  charming  retreat,  accompa- 
nied with  such  reflections  as  the  scene  naturally 
suggested.  It  was  written  twelve  months  ago, 
when  the  author  was  in  his  sixteenth  year. — The 
Miscellanies  are  some  of  them  the  productions  of 
a  very  early  age. — Of  the  Odes  that  "  To  an  early 
Primrose"  was  written  at  thirteen — the  others  are 
of  a  later  date. — The  Sonnets  are  chiefly  irregular ; 
they  have,  perhaps,  no  other  claim  to  that  SPECIFIC 
denomination,  than  that  they  consist  only  of  four- 
teen lines. 

Such  are  the  Poems  towards  which  I  entreat 
the  lenity  of  the  public.  The  critic  will  doubt- 
less find  in  them  much  to  condemn ;  he  may  like- 
wise possibly  discover  something  to  commend. 
Let  him  scan  my  faults  with  an  indulgent  eye,  and 
in  the  work  of  that  correction  which  I  invite,  let 
him  remember  he  is  holding  the  iron  mace  of 
criticism  over  the  flimsy  superstructure  of  a  youth 
of  seventeen,  and,  remembering  that,  may  he  for- 
bear from  crushing,  by  too  much  rigour,  the  pain- 
ted butterfly  whose  transient  colours  may  other- 
wise be  capable  of  affording  a  moment's  innocent 
amusement 

H.  K.  WHITE. 
Nottingham. 


TO  MY  LYRE. 

AN    ODE. 


I. 

THOU  simple  Lyre  ! — Thy  music  wild 

Has  served  to  charm  the  weary  hour, 
And  many  a  lonely  night  has  'guiled, 
When  even  pain  has  own'd  and  smiled, 
Its  fascinating  power. 

II. 

Yet,  oh  my  Lyre  !  the  busy  crowd 
Will  little  heed  thy  simple  tones  : 
Them  mightier  minstrels  harping  loud 
Engross, — and  thou  and  I  must  shroud 
Where  dark  oblivion  'thrones. 

III. 

No  hand,  thy  diapason  o'er, 

Well  skill'd,  I  throw  with  sweep  sublime  ; 
For  me,  no  academic  lore 
Has  taught  the  solemn  strain  to  pour, 

Or  build  the  polish'd  rhyme. 

IV. 

Yet  thou  to  Sylvan  themes  can  soar ; 

Thou  know'st  to  charm  the  ivoodland  train : 
The  rustic  swains  believe  thy  power 
Can  hush  the  wild  winds  when  they  roar, 

And  still  the  billowy  main, 

117 


118  TO  MY  LYRE. 

V. 

These  honours,  Lyre,  we  yet  may  keep, 
I,  still  unknown,  may  live  with  thee, 
And  gentle  zephyr's  wing  will  sweep 
Thy  solemn  string,  where  low  I  sleep, 
Beneath  the  alder  tree. 

VI. 

This  little  dirge  will  please  me  mo/e 

Than  the  full  requiem's,  swelling  peal ; 
I'd  rather  than  that  crowds  should  sigh 
For  me,  that  from  some  kindred  eye 
The  trickling  tear  should  steal. 

VII. 

Yet  dear  to  me  the  wreath  of  bay, 

Perhaps  from  me  debarr'd  : 
And  dear  to  me  the  classic  zone, 
Which,    snatch'd   from  learning's  labour'd 

Adorns  the  accepted  bard.  [throne 

VIII. 

And  0  !  if  yet  'twere  mine  to  dwell 

Where  Cam  or  Isis  winds  along, 
Perchance,  inspired  with  ardour  chaste, 
I  yet  might  call  the  ear  of  taste     - 
To  listen  to  my  song. 

IX. 

Oh  !  then,  my  little  friend,  thy  style 

I'd  change  to  happier  lays, 
Oh  !  then,  the  cloister'd  glooms  should  smile, 
And  through  the  long,  the  fretted  aisle 

Should  swell  the  note  of  praise. 


CLIFTON  GROVE: 

A  SKETCH  IN    VERSE. 


Lo  !  in  the  west,  fast  fades  the  lingering  light, 
And  day's  last  vestige  takes  its  silent  flight. 
No  more  is  heard  the  woodman's  measured  stroke 
Which,  with  the  dawn,  from  yonder  dingle  broke  ; 
No  more  hoarse  clamouring  o'er  the  uplifted  head, 
The  crows  assembling,  seek  their  wind-rock'd  bed ; 
Still'd  is  the  village  hum — the  woodland  sounds 
Have  ceased  to  echo  o'er  the  dewy  grounds, 
And  general  silence  reigns,  save  when  below, 
Tiie  murmuring  Trent  is  scarcely  heard  to  flow  ; 
And  save  when,  swung  by  'nighted  rustic  late, 
Oft,  on  its  hinge,  rebounds  the  jarring  gate  ; 
Or  when  the  sheep-bell,  in  the  distant  vale,  . 
Breathes  its  wild  music  on  the  downy  gale. 

Now,  when  the  rustic  wears  the  social  smile, 
Released  from  day  and  its  attendant  toil, 
And  draws  his  household  round  their  evening  fire, 
And  tells  the  oft-told  tales  that  never  tire  ; 
Or  where  the  town's  blue  turrets  dimly  rise, 
And  manufacture  taints  the  ambient  skies, 
The  pale  mechanic  leaves  the  labouring  loom, 
The  air-pent  hold,  the  pestilential  room, 

119 


120  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  rushes  out,  impatient  to  begin 
The  stated  course  of  customary  sin ; 
Now,  now  my  solitary  way  I  bend 
Where  solemn  groves  in  awful  state  impend. 
And  cliffs,  that  boldly  rise  above  the  plain, 
Bespeak,  bless'd  Clifton  !  thy  sublime  domain. 
Here  lonely  wandering  o'er  the  sylvan  bower, 
I  come  to  pass  the  meditative  hour ; 
To  bid  awhile  the  strife  of  passion  cease, 
And  woo  the  calms  of  solitude  and  peace. 
And  oh  !  thou  sacred  Power,  who  rear'st  on  high 
Thy  leafy  throne  where  waving  poplars  sigh !  • 
Genius  of  woodland  shades  !  whose  mild  control 
Steals  with  resistless  witchery  to  the  soul, 
Come  with  thy  wonted  ardour,  and  inspire 
My  glowing  bosom  with  thy  hallowed  fire. 
And  thou  too,  Fancy,  from  thy  starry  sphere, 
Where  to  the  hymning  orbs  thou  lend'st  thine  ear, 
Do  thou  descend,  and  bless  my  ravish'd  sight, 
Veil'd  in  soft  visions  of  serene  delight. 
At  thy  command  the  gale  that  passes  by 
Bears  in  its  whispers  mystic  harmony. 
Thou  wav'st  thy  wand,  and  lo !  what  forms  ap- 
pear! 

On  the  dark  cloud  what  giant  shapes  career ! 
The  ghosts  of  Ossian  skim  the  misty  vale, 
And  hosts  of  Sylphids  on  the  moon-beams  sail. 

This  gloomy  alcove  darkling  to  the  sight, 
Where  meeting  trees  create  eternal  night ; 
Save,  when  from  yonder  stream,  the  sunny  ray, 
Reflected,  gives  a  dubious  gleam  of  day ; 


CLIFTON    GROVE.  121 

Recalls,  endearing  to  my  alter'd  mind, 
Times,  when  beneath  the  boxen  hedge  reclined, 
I  watch'd  the  lapwing  to  her  clamorous  brood  j 
Or  lured  the  robin  to  its  scatter'd  food ; 
Or  woke  with  song  the  woodland  echo  wild, 
And  at  each  gay  response  delighted  smiled. 
How  oft,  when  childhood  threw  its  golden  ray 
Of  gay  romance  o'er  every  happy  day, 
Here  would  I  run,  a  visionary  boy, 
When  the  hoarse  tempest  shook  the  vaulted  sky, 
And,  faney-led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 
Sternly  careering  on  the  eddying  storm ; 
And  heard,  while  awe  congeal'd  my  inmost  soul, 
His  voice  terrific  in  the  thunders  roll. 
With  secret  joy,  I  view'd  with  vivid  glare 
The  volley'd  lightnings  cleave  the  sullen  air; 
And,  as  the  warring  winds  around  reviled, 
With  awful  pleasure  big, — I  heard  and  smiled. 
Beloved  remembrance  ! — Memory  which  endears 
This  silent  spot  to  my  advancing  years. 
Here  dwells  eternal  peace,  eternal  rest, 
In  shades  like  these  to  live  is  to  be  bless'd. 
While  happiness  evades  the  busy  crowd, 
In  rural  coverts  loves  the  maid  to  shroud. 
And  thou  too,  Inspiration,  whose  wild  flame 
Shoots  with  electric  swiftness  through  the  frame, 
Thou  here  dost  love  to  sit  with  up-turn'd  eye, 
And  listen  to  the  stream  that  murmurs  by, 
The  woods  that  wave,  the  gray  owl's  silken  flight, 
The  mellow  music  of  the  listening  night. 
Congenial  calms  more  welcome  to  my  breast 
Than  maddening  joy  in  dazzling  lustre  dress'd, 
11 


122  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

To  Heaven  my  prayers,  my  daily  prayers,  I  raise, 
That  ye  may  bless  my  unambitious  days, 
Withdrawn,  remote,  from  all  the  haunts  of  strife, 
May  trace  with  me  the  lowly  vale  of  life, 
And  when  her  banner  Death  shall  o'er  me  wave, 
May  keep  your  peaceful  vigils  on  my  grave. 
Now  as  I  rove,  where  wide  the  prospect  grows, 
A  livelier  light  upon  my  vision  flows. 
No  more  above  th'  embracing  branches  meet, 
No  more  the  river  gurgles  at  my  feet, 
But  seen  deep,  down  the  cliff's  impending  side, 
Through  hanging  woods,  now  gleams  its  silver  tide. 
Dim  is  my  upland  path, — across  the  Green 
Fantastic  shadows  fling,  yet  oft  between     [sheds, 
The  chequer'd  glooms,  the  moon  her  chaste  ray 
Where  knots  of  blue-bells  droop  their  graceful 

heads, 

And  beds  of  violets  blooming  'mid  the  trees, 
Load  with  waste  fragrance  the  nocturnal  breeze. 

Say,  why  does  Man,  while  to  his  opening  sight 
Each  shrub  presents  a  source  of  chaste  delight, 
And  Nature  bids  for  him  her  treasures  flow, 
And  gives  to  him  alone  his  bliss  to  know, 
Why  does  he  pant  for  Vice's  deadly  charms  ? 
Why  clasp  the  syren  Pleasure  to  his  arms  ? 
And  suck  deep  draughts  of  her  voluptuous  breath, 
Though  fraught  with  ruin,  infamy,  and  death  ? 
Could  he  who  thus  to  vile  enjoyment  clings, 
Know  what  calm  joy  from  purer  sources  springs ; 
Could  he  but  feel  how  sweet,  how  free  from  strife, 
The  harmless  pleasures  of  a  harmless  life, 


CLIFTON    GROVE.  123 

No  more  his  soul  would  pant  for  joys  impure, 
The  deadly  chalice  would  no  more  allure, 
But  the  sweet  portion  he  was  wont  to  sip, 
Would  turn  to  poison  on  his  conscious  lip. 

Fair  Nature  !  thee,  in  all  thy  varied  charms, 
Fain  would  I  clasp  for  ever  in  my  arms ! 
Thine  are  the  sweets  which  never,  never  sate, 
Thine  still  remain  through  all  the  storms  of  fate. 
Though  not  for  me,  'twas  Heaven's  divine  com- 
mand 

To  roll  in  acres  of  paternal  land, 
Yet  still  my  lot  is  bless'd,  while  I  enjoy 
Thine  opening  beauties  with  a  lover's  eye. 

Happy  is  he,  who,  though  the  cup  of  bliss 
Has  ever  shunn'd  him  when  he  thought  to  kiss, 
Who,  still  in  abject  poverty  or  pain, 
Can  count  with  pleasure  what  small  joys  remain : 
Though  were  his  sight  convey 'd  from  zone  to  zone, 
He  would  not  find  one  spot  of  ground  his  own, 
Yet,  as  he  looks  around,  he  cries  with  glee, 
These  bounding  prospects  all  were  made  for  me : 
For  me  yon  waving  fields  their  burden  bear, 
For  me  yon  labourer  guides  the  shining  share, 
While  happy  I  in  idle  ease  recline, 
And  mark  the  glorious  visions  as  they  shine. 
This  is  the  charm,  by  sages  often  told, 
Converting  all  it  touches  into  gold. 
Content  can  soothe,  where'er  by  fortune  placed, 
Can  rear  a  garden  in  the  desert  waste* 


124  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

How  lovely,  from  this  hill's  superior  height, 
Spreads  the  wide  view  before  my  straining  sight ! 
O'er  many  a  varied  mile  of  lengthening  ground, 
E'en  to  the  blue-ridged  hill's  remotest  bound, 
My  ken  is  borne ;  while  o'er  my  head  serene, 
The  silver  moon  illumes  the  misty  scene ; 
Now  shining  clear,  now  darkening  in  the  glade, 
In  all  the  soft  varieties  of  shade. 

Behind  me,  lo  !  the  peaceful  hamlet  lies, 

The  drowsy  god  has  seal'd  the  cotter's  eyes. 

No  more,  where  late  the  social  fagot  blazed, 

The  vacant  peal  resounds,  by  little  raised ; 

But  lock'd  in  silence,  o'er  Arion's*  star 

The  slumbering  Night  rolls  on  her  velvet  car  : 

The  church-bell  tolls,  deep-sounding  down  the 

glade, 

The  solemn  hour  for  walking  spectres  made ; 
The  simple  plough-boy,  wakening  with  the  sound, 
Listens  aghast,  and  turns  him  startled  round, 
Then  stops  his  ears,  and  strives  to  close  his  eyes, 
Lest  at  the  sound  some  grisly  ghost  should  rise. 
Now  ceased  the  long,  and  monitory  toll, 
Returning  silence  stagnates  in  the  soul ; 
Save  when, disturb 'd  by  dreams,  with  wild  affright, 
The  deep  mouth'd  mastiff  bays  the  troubled  night : 
Or  where  the  village  ale-house  crowns  the  vale, 
The  creeking  sign-post  whistles  to  the  gale. 
A  little  onward  let  me  bend  my  way, 
Where  the  moss'd  seat  invites  the  traveller's  stay. 

*  The  Constellation  Delphinus.     For  authority  for  this 
appellation,  vide  Ovid's  Fasti,  B.  xi.  113. 


CLIFTON    GROVE.  125 

That  spot,  oh  !  yet  it  is  the  very  same  ; 

That  hawthorn  gives  it  shade,  and  gave  it  name : 

There  yet  the  primrose  opes  its  earliest  bloom, 

There  yet  the  violet  sheds  its  first  perfume, 

And  in  the  branch  that  rears  above  the  rest 

The  robin  unmolested  builds  its  nest. 

JTwas  here,  when  hope,  presiding  o'er  my  breast, 

In  vivid  colours  every  prospect  dress'd : 

'Twas  here,  reclining,  I  indulged  her  dreams, 

And  lost  the  hour  in  visionary  schemes. 

Here,  as  I  press  once  more  the  ancient  seat, 

Why,  bland  deceiver  !  not  renew  the  cheat ! 

Say,  can  a  few  short  years  this  change  achieve, 

That  thy  illusions  can  no  more  deceive ! 

Time's    sombrous  tints  have  every  view  o'er- 

spread, 

And  thou  too,  gay  seducer  ;  art  thou  fled  ? 
Though  vain  thy  promise,  and  the  suit  severe, 
Yet  thou  couldst  guile  Misfortune  of  her  tear, 
And  oft  thy  smiles  across  life's  gloomy  way, 
Could  throw  a  gleam  of  transitory  day. 
How  gay,  in  youth,  the  flattering  future  seems ; 
How  sweet  is  manhood  in  the  infant's  dreams ; 
The  dire  mistake  too  soon  is  brought  to  light, 
And  all  is  buried  in  redoubled  night. 
Yet  some  can  rise  superior  to  their  pain, 
And  in  their  breasts  the  charmer  Hope  retain : 
While  others,  dead  to  feeling,  can  survey, 
Unmoved,  their  fairest  prospects  fade  away : 
But  yet  a  few  there  be, — too  soon  o'ercast ! 
Who  shrink  unhappy  from  the  adverse  blast, 

11  * 


126  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  woo  the  first  bright  gleam,  which  breaks  the 

gloom, 

To  gild  the  silent  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 
So  in  these  shades  the  early  primrose  blows, 
Too  soon  deceived  by  suns  and  melting  snows, 
So  falls  untimely  on  the  desert  waste ; 
Its  blossoms  withering  in  the  northern  blast. 

Now  pass'd  what'er  the  upland  heights  display, 
Down  the  steep  cliff  I  wind  my  devious  way ; 
Oft  rousing,  as  the  rustling  path  I  beat, 
The  timid  hare  from  its  accustom'd  seat. 
Andoh  !  how  sweet  this  walk  o'erhung  with  wood, 
That  winds  the  margin  of  the  solemn  flood  ! 
What  rural  objects  steal  upon  the  sight ! 
What  rising  views  prolong  the  calm  delight ; 
The  brooklet  branching  from  the  silver  Trent, 
The  whispering  birch  by  every  zephyr  bent, 
The  woody  island,  and  the  naked  mead, 
The  lowly  hut  half  hid  in  groves  of  reed, 
The  rural  wicket,  and  the  rural  stile, 
Arid,  frequent  interspersed)  the  woodman's  pile. 
Above,  below,  where'er  I  turn  my  eyes, 
Rocks,  waters,  woods,  in  grand  succession  rise. 
High  up  the  cliff  the  varied  groves  ascend, 
And  mournful  larches  o'er  the  wave  impend. 
Around,  what  sounds,  what  magic  sounds,  arise, 
What  glimmering  scenes  salute  my  ravish'd  eyes  ? 
Soft  sleep  the  waters  on  their  pebbly  bed, 
The  woods  wave  gently  o'er  my  drooping  head, 
And,  swelling  slow,  comes  wafted  on  the  wind, 
Lorn  Progne's  note  from  distant  copse  behind. 


CLIFTON    GROVE.  127 

Still,  every  rising  sound  of  calm  delight 
Stamps  but  the  fearful  silence  of  the  night, 
Save  when  is  heard,  between  each  dreary  rest, 
Discordant  from  her  solitary  nest, 
The  owl,  dull-screaming  to  the  wandering  moon ; 
Now  riding,  cloud-wrapt,  near  her  highest  noon . 
Or  when  the  wild-duck,  southering,  hither  rides, 
And  plunges  sullen  in  the  sounding  tides. 

How  oft,  in  this  sequester'd  spot,  when  youth 
Gave  to  each  tale  the  holy  force  of  truth, 
Have  I  long  linger'd,  while  the  milk-maid  sung 
The  tragic  legend,  till  the  woodland  rung! 
That  tale,  so  sad  !  which,  still  to  memory  dear, 
From  its  sweet  source  can  call  the  sacred  tear, 
And  (lulled  to  rest  stern  Reason's  harsh  control) 
Steal  its  soft  magic  to  the  passive  soul.         [wind. 
These  hallo w'd  shades, — these  trees  that  woo  the 
Recall  its  faintest  features  to  my  mind. 

A  hundred  passing  years,  with  march  sublime, 
Have  swept  beneath  the  silent  wing  of  time, 
Since,  in  yon  hamlet's  solitary  shade, 
Reclusely  dwelt  the  far-famed  Clifton  Maid, 
The  beauteous  Margaret ;  for  her  each  swain 
Confess'd  in  private  his  peculiar  pain, 
In  secret  sigh'd,  a  victim  to  despair, 
Nor  dared  to  hope  to  win  the  peerless  fair. 
No  more  the  shepherd  on  the  blooming  mead 
Attuned  to  gaiety  his  artless  reed, 
No  more  entwined  the  pansied  wreath,  to  deck 
His  favourite  wether's  unpolluted  neck, 


128  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

But  listless,  by  yon  babbling  stream  reclined 
He  mixed  his  sobbings  with  the  passing  wind, 
Bemoan'd  his  helpless  love ;  or,  boldly  bent, 
Far  from  these  smiling  fields,  a  rover  went, 
O'er  distant  lands,  in  search  of  ease,  to  roam, 
A  self-will'd  exile  from  his  native  home. 

Yet  not  to  all  the  maid  express'd  disdain ; 
Her  Bateman  loved,  nor  loved  the  youth  in  vain. 
Full  oft,  low  whispering  o'er  these  arching  boughs, 
The  echoing  vault  responded  to  their  vows, 
As  here  deep  hidden  from  the  glare  of  day, 
Enamour'd  oft,  they  took  their  secret  way. 

Yon  bosky  dingle,  still  the  rustics  name  ; 
'Twas  there  the  blushing  maid  confess'd  her  flame. 
Down  yon  green  lane  they  oft  were  seen  to  hie, 
When  evening  slumber'd  on  the  western  sky. 
That  blasted  yew,  that  mouldering  walnut  bare, 
Each  bears  mementos  of  the  fated  pair. 

One  eve,  when  Autumn  loaded  every  breeze 
With  the  fall'n  honours  of  the  mourning  trees, 
The  maiden  waited  at  the  accustom'd  bower, 
And  waited  long  beyond  the  appointed  hour, 
Yet  Bateman  came  not ; — o'er  the  woodland  drear, 
Howling  portentous,  did  the  winds  career ; 
And  bleak  and  dismal  on  the  leafless  woods, 
The  fitful  rains  rush'd  down  in  sullen  floods ; 
The   night   was  dark;  as,  now  and   then,  the 

gale 
Paused  for  a  moment, — Margaret  listen'd,  pale ; 


CLIFTON  GROVE,  129 

But  through  the  covert  to  her  anxious  ear, 
No  rustling  footstep  spoke  her  lover  near,    [why, 
Strange  fears  now  fill,d  her  breast, — she  knew  not 
She  sigh'd,  and  Bateman's  name  was  in  each  sigh. 
She  hears  a  noise, — 'tis  he, — he  comes  at  last ; — 
Alas  !  'twas  but  the  gale  which  hurried  past  : 
But  now  she  hears  a  quickening  footstep  sound, 
Lightly  it  comes,  and  nearer  does  it  bound ; 
'Tis  Bateman's  self, — he  springs  into  her  arms, 
'Tis  he  that  clasps,  and  chides  her  vain  alarms. 
"  Yet  why  this  silence  ? — I  have  waited  long, 
And  the  cold  storm  has  yell'd  the  trees  among. 
And  now  thou'rt  here  my  fears  are  fled — yet  speak, 
Why  does  the  salt  tear  moisten  on  thy  cheek  ? 
Say,  what  is  wrong  ?" — Now,  through  a  parting 

cloud,  [shroud, 

The  pale   moon   peer'd   from   her   tempestuous 
And  Bateman's  face  was   seen : — 'twas   deadly 

white, 

And  sorrow  seem'd  to  sicken  in  his  sight. 
"  Oh,  speak  my  love  !"  again  the  maid  conjured, 
Why  is  thy  heart  in  sullen  wo  immured  ?" 
He  raised  his  head,  and  thrice  essay'd  to  tell, 
Thrice  from  his  lips  the  unfinished  accents  fell ; 
When  thus  at  last  reluctantly  he  broke 
His  boding  silence,  and  the  maid  bespoke : 
"  Grieve  not,  my  love,  but  ere  the  morn  advance, 
I  on  these  fields  must  cast  my  parting  glance  ; 
For  three  long  years,  by  cruel  fate's  command, 
I  go  to  languish  in  a  foreign  land. 
Oh,  Margaret !  omens  dire  have  met  my  view, 
Say,  when  far  distant,  wilt  thou  bear  me  true  ? 


130  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Should  honours  tempt  thee,  and  should  riches  fee, 
Wouldst  thou  forget  thine  ardent  vows  to  me, 
And,  on  the  silken  couch  of  wealth  reclined, 
Banish  thy  faithful  Bateman  from  thy  mind?" 

"  Oh !  why,"  replies  the  maid,"  my  faith  thus  prove, 
Canst  thou  !  ah,  canst  thou,  then  suspect  my  love  ? 
Hear  me,  just  God  !  if  from  my  traitorous  heart, 
My  Bateman's  fond  remembrance  e'er  shall  part, 
If,  when  he  hail  again  his  native  shore, 
He  finds  his  Margaret  true  to  him  no  more, 
May  fiends  of  hell,  and  every  power  of  dread, 
Conjoin'd,  then  drag  me  from  my  perjured  bed, 
And  hurl  me  headlong  down  these  awful  steeps, 
To  find  deserved  death  in  yonder  deeps  !"* 

Thus  spake  the  maid,  and  from  her  finger  drew 
A  golden  ring,  and  broke  it  quick  in  two  ; 
One  half  she  in  her  lovely  bosom  hides, 
The  other,  trembling,  to  her  love  confides. 
"This  bind  the  vow,"  she  said,  "this  mystic  charm, 
No  future  recantation  can  disarm, 
The  right  vindictive  does  the  fates  involve, 
No  tears  can  move  it,  no  regrets  dissolve." 

She  ceased.     The  death-bird  gave  a  dismal  cry, 
The  river  moan'd,  the  wild  gale  whistled  by, 
And  once  again  the  Lady  of  the  night 
Behind  a  heavy  cloud  withdrew  her  light. 
Trembling  she  view'd  these  portents  with  dismay : 
But  gently  Bateman  kiss'd  her  fears  away  : 

*This  part  of  the  Trent  is  commonly  called  "  The  Clif- 
ton 


CLIFTON  GROVE.  131 

Yet  still  he  felt  conceal'd  a  secret  smart, 
Still  melancholy  bodhigs  fill'd  his  heart. 

When  to  the  distant  land  the  youth  was  sped, 
A  lonely  life  the  moody  maiden  led.  [walk, 

Still  would  she  trace  each  dear,  each,  well-known 
Still  by  the  moonlight  to  her  love  would  talk, 
And  fancy,  as  she  paced  among  the  trees, 
She  heard  his  whispers  in  the  dying  breeze. 
Thus  two  years  glided  on  in  silent  grief; 
The  third  her  bosom  own'd  the  kind  relief:  [flame 
Absence  had  cool'd  her  love — the  impoverish'd 
Was  dwindling  fast,  when  lo  !  the  tempter  came  ; 
He  offer'd  wealth,  and  all  the  joys  of  life, 
And  the  weak  maid  became  another's  wife  ! 

Six  guilty  months  had  mark'd  the  false  one's  crime, 

When  Bateman  hail'd  once  more  his  native  clime, 

Sure  of  her  constancy,  elate  he  came, 

The  lovely  partner  of  his  soul  to  claim, 

Light  was  his  heart,  as  up  the  well-known  way 

He  bent  his  steps — and  all  his  thoughts  were  gay. 

Oh!  who  can  paint  his  agonizing  throes, 

When  on  his  ear  the  fatal  news  arose  ! 

Chill'd  with  amazement, — sensaless  with  the  blow, 

He  stood  a  marble  monument  of  wo  ; 

Till  called  to  all  the  horrors  of  despair, 

He  smote  his  brow,  and  tore  his  horrent  hair ; 

Then  rush'd  impetuous  from  the  dreadful  spot, 

And  sought  those  scenes,  (by  memory  ne'er  forgot,) 

Those  scenes,  the  witness  of  their  growing  flame, 

And  now  like  witnesses  of  Margaret's  shame. 


132  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

'Twas  night — he  sought  the  river's  lonely  shore, 
And  traced  again  their  former  wanderings  o'er. 
Now  on  the  bank  in  silent  grief  he  stood, 
And  gazed  intently  on  the  stealing  flood, 
Death  in  his  mein  and  madness  in  his  eye, 
He  watch'd  the  waters  as  they  murmur'd  by ; 
Bade  the  base  murderess  triumph  o'er  his  grave — 
Prepared  to  plunge  into  the  whelming  wave. 
Yet  still  he  stood  irresolutely  bent, 
Religion  sternly  stay'd  his  rash  intent. 
He  knelt. — Cool  play'd  upon  his  cheek  the  wind, 
And  fann'd  the  fever  of  his  maddening  mind. 
The  willows  waved,  the  stream  it  sweetly  swept, 
The  paly  moonbeam  on  its  surface  slept, 
And  all  was  peace  ; — he  felt  the  general  calm 
O'er  his  rack'd  bosom  shed  a  genial  balm : 
When  casting  far  behind  his  streaming  eye, 
He  saw  the  Grove, — in  fancy  saw  her  lie, 
His  Margaret,  lull'd  in  Germain's*  arms  to  rest, 
And  all  the  demon  rose  within  his  breast. 
Convulsive  now,  he  clench'd  his  trembling  hand, 
Cast  his  dark  eye  once  more  upon  the  land, 
Then,  at  one  spring  he  spurn'd  the  yielding  bank, 
And  in  the  calm  deceitful  current  sank. 

Sad,  on  the  solitude  of  night,  the  sound, 

As  in  the  stream  he  plunged,  was  heard  around : 

Then  all  was  still — the  wave  was  rough  no  more, 

The  river  swept  as  sweetly  as  before  ; 

The  willows  waved,  the  moonbeams  shone  serene, 

And  peace  returning  brooded  o'er  the  scene. 

*  Germain  is  the  traditionary  name  of  her  husband. 


CLIFTON  GROVE.  133 

Now,  see  upon  the  perjured  fair  one  hang 
Remorse's  glooms  and  never-ceasing  pang. 
Full  well  she  knew,  repentant  now  too  late, 
She  soon  must  bow  beneath  the  stroke  of  fate. 
But,  for  the  babe  she  bore  beneath  her  breast, 
The  offended  God  prolonged  her  life  unbless'd. 
But  fast  the  fleeting  moments  roll'd  away, 
And  near,  and  nearer  drew  the  dreaded  day ; 
That  day,  foredoom'd  to  give  her  child  the  light, 
And  hurl  its  mother  to  the  shades  of  night. 
The  hour  arrived,  and  from  the  wretched  wife 
The  guiltless  baby  struggled  into  life. — 
As  night  drew  on,  around  her  bed,  a  band 
Of  friends  and  kindred  kindly  took  their  stand  ; 
In  holy  prayer  they  pass'd  the  creeping  time, 
Intent  to  expiate  her  awful  crime.  [came, 

Their  prayers  were  fruitless. — As  the  midnight 
A  heavy  sleep  oppress'd  each  weary  frame. 
In  vain  they  strove  against  the  o'er  whelming  load, 
Some  power  unseen  their  drowsy  lids  bestrode. 
They  slept,  till  in  the  blushing  eastern  sky 
The  blooming  Morning  oped  her  dewy  eye  ; 
Then  wakening  wide  they  sought  the  ravish'd  bed, 
But  lo  !  the  hapless  Margaret  was  fled ; 
And  never  more  the  weeping  train  were  doom'd 
To  view  the  false  one,  in  the  deeps  intomb'd. 

The  neighbouring  rustics  told  that  in  the  night 
They  heard  such  screams  as  froze  them  with  affright ; 
And  many  an  infant,  at  its  mother's  breast, 
Started  dismay'd,  from  its  unthinking  rest. 


134  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  even  now,  upon  the  heath  forlorn,       [borne, 
They  show  the  path  down  which  the  fair  was 
By  the  fell  demons,  to  the  yawning  wave, 
Her  own,  and  murder 'd  lover's,  mutual  grave. 

Such  is  the  tale,  so  sad,  to  memory  dear, 
Which  oft  in  youth  has  charm'd  my  listening  ear, 
That  tale,  which  bade  me  find  redoubled  sweets 
In  the  drear  silence  of  these  dark  retreats, 
And  even  now,  with  melancholy  power, 
Adds  a  new  pleasure  to  the  lonely  hour. 
'Mid  all  the  charms  by  magic  Nature  given 
To  this  wild  spot,  this  sublunary  heaven, 
With  double  joy  enthusiast  Fancy  leans 
On  the  attendant  legend  of  the  scenes. 
This  sheds  a  fairy  lustre  on  the  floods, 
And  breathes  a  mellower  gloom  upon  the  woods  ; 
This,  as  the  distant  cataract  swells  around, 
Gives  a  romantic  cadence  to  the  sound ; 
This  and  the  deepening  glen,  the  alley  green, 
The  silver  stream,  with  sedgy  tufts  between, 
The  massy  rock,  the  wood-encompass'd  leas, 
The  broom-clad  islands,  and  the  nodding  trees, 
The  lengthening  vista,  and  the  present  gloom, 
The  verdant  pathway  breathing  waste  perfume  ; 
These  are  thy  charms,  the  joys  which  these  impart 
Bind  thee,  bless 'd  Clifton !  close  around  my  heart. 

Dear  Native  Grove  !  where'er  my  devious  track, 
To  thee  will  Memory  lead  the  wanderer  back. 
Whether  in  Arno's  polish'd  vales  I  stray, 
Or  where  «  Oswego's  swamps"  obstruct  the  day ; 


CLIFTON    GROVE.  135 

Or  wander  lone,  where,  wildering  and  wide, 
The  tumbling  torrent  laves  St.  Gothard's  side  ; 
Or  by  old  Tejo's  classic  margent  muse, 
Or  stand  entranced  with  Pyrenean  views  ; 
Still,  still  to  thee,  where'er  my  footsteps  roam, 
My  heart  shall  point,  and  lead  the  wanderer  home. 
When  Splendor  offers,  and  when  Fame  incites, 
I'll  pause,  and  think  of  all  thy  dear  delights, 
Reject  the  boon,  and,  wearied  with  the  change, 
Renounce  the  wish  which  first  induced  to  range ; 
Turn  to  these   scenes,  these  well-known  scenes 

once  more, 

Trace  once  again  old  Trent's  romantic  shore, 
And,  tired  with  worlds,  and  all  their  busy  ways, 
Here  waste  the  little  remnant  of  my  days. 
But,  if  the  Fates  should  this  last  wish  deny, 
And  doom  me  on  some  foreign  shore  to  die  ; 
Oh  !  should  it  please  the  world's  supernal  King, 
That  weltering  waves  my  funeral  dirge  shall  sing; 
Or  that  my  corse  should,  on  some  desert  strand, 
Lie  stretch'd  beneath  the  Simoon's  blasting  hand; 
Still,  though  unwept  I  find  a  stranger  tomb, 
My  sprite  shall  wander  through  this  favourite  gloom, 
Ride  on  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  leafless  grove, 
Sigh  on  the  wood-blast  of  the  dark  alcove, 
Sit,  a  lorn  spectre  on  yon  well-known  grave, 
And  mix  its  meanings  with  the  desert  wave. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


GONDOLINEj 

A  BALLAD. 


THE  night  it  was  still,  and  the  moon  it  shone 

Serenely  on  the  sea, 
And  the  waves  at  the  foot  of  the  rifted  rock 

They,  murmur'd  pleasantly. 

When  Gondoline  roam'd  along  the  shore, 

A  maiden  full  fair  to  the  sight ; 
Though  love  had  made  bleak  the  rose  on  her 
cheek, 

And  turned  it  to  deadly  white. 

Her  thoughts  they  were  drear,  and  the  silent  tear 

It  fill'd  her  faint  blue  eye, 
As  oft  she  heard,  in  Fancy's  ear, 

Her  Bertrand's  dying  sigh. 

Her  Bertrand  was  the  bravest  youth 

Of  all  our  good  King's  men, 
And  he  was  gone  to  the  Holy  Land 

To  fight  the  Saracen. 
136 


GONDOLINE.  137 

And  many  a  month  had  pass'd  away, 

Arid  many  a  rolling  year, 
But  nothing  the  maid  from  Palestine 

Could  of  her  lover  hear. 

Full  oft  she  vainly  tried  to  pierce 

The  Ocean's  misty  face ; 
Full  oft  she  thought  her  lover's  bark 

She  on  the  wave  could  trace. 

And  every  night  she  placed  a  light 

In  the  high  rock's  lonely  tower, 
To  guide  her  lover  to  the  land, 

Should  the  murky  tempest  lower. 

But  now  despair  had  seized  her  breast, 

And  sunken  in  her  eye  ; 
«  Oh  !  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live, 

And  I  in  peace  will  die." 

She  wander'd  o'er  the  lonely  shore, 

The  Curlew  scream'd  above, 
She  heard  the  scream  with  a  sickening  heart 

Much  boding  of  her  love. 

Yet  still  she  kept  her  lonely  way, 

And  this  was  all  her  cry, 
«0h  !  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live, 

And  I  in  peace  shall  die." 

And  now  she  came  to  a  horrible  rift. 
All  in  the  rock's  hard  side, 
12* 


138  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

A  bleak  and  blasted  oak  o'erspread 
The  cavern  yawning  wide. 

And  pendant  from  its  dismal  top 
The  deadly  nightshade  hung ; 

The  hemlock  and  the  aconite 
Across  the  mouth  were  flung. 

And  all  within  was  dark  and  drear, 

And  all  without  was  calm ; 
Y"et  Gondoline  entered,  her  soul  upheld 

By  some  deep-working  charm. 

And  as  she  enter'd  the  cavern  wide, 
The  moonbeam  gleamed  pale, 

And  she  saw  a  snake  on  the  craggy  rock, 
It  clung  by  its  slimy  tail. 

Her  foot  it  slipped,  and  she  stood  aghast, 

She  trod  on  a  bloated  toad ; 
Yet,  still  upheld  by  the  secret  charm, 

She  kept  upon  her  road. 

And  now  upon  her  frozen  ear 

Mysterious  sounds  arose ; 
So,  on  the  mountain's  piny  top, 

The  blustering  north  wind  blows. 

Then  furious  peals  of  laughter  loud 
Were  heard  with  thundering  sound, 

Till  they  died  away  in  soft  decay, 
Low  whispering  o'er  the  ground. 


OONDOJLINE.  139 

Yet  still  the  maiden  onward  went, 

The  charm  yet  onward  led, 
Though  each  big  glaring  ball  of  sight 

Seem'd  bursting  from  her  head. 

But  now  a  pale  blue  light  she  saw, 

It  from  a  distance  came, 
She  followed,  till  upon  her  sight, 

Burst  full  a  flood  of  flame. 

She  stood  appall 'd ;  yet  still  the  charm 

Upheld  her  sinking  soul ; 
Yet  each  bent  knee  the  other  smote, 

And  each  wild  eye  did  roll. 

And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there, 

No  mortal  saw  before, 
And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there, 

No  mortal  shall  see  more. 

A  burning  cauldron  stood  in  the  midst, 

The  flame  was  fierce  and  high, 
And  all  the  cave  so  wide  and  long, 

Was  plainly  seen  thereby. 

And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 
Twelve  withered  witches  stood : 

Their  waists  were  bound  with  living  snakes, 
And  their  hair  was  stiff  with  blood. 

Their  hands  were  gory  too  ;  and  red 
And  fiercely  flamed  their  eyes : 


140  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  they  <were  muttering  indistinct 
Their  hellish  mysteries. 

And  suddenly  they  join'd  their  hands, 

And  uttered  a  joyous  cry, 
And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

And  now  they  stopp'd;  and  each  prepared 

To  tell  what  she  had  done, 
Since  last  the  Lady  of  the  night 

Her  waning  course  had  run. 

Behind  a  rock  stood  Gondoline, 

Thick  weeds  her  face  did  veil, 
And  she  lean'd  fearful  forwarder, 

To  hear  the  dreadful  tale. 

The  first  arose :  She  said  she'd  seen 
Rare  sport  since  the  blind  cat  mew'd, 

She'd  been  to  sea  in  a  leaky  sieve, 
And  a  jovial  storm  had  brew'd. 

She  call'd  around  the  winged  winds, 

And  rais'd  a  devilish  rout ; 
And  she  laugh'd  so  loud,  the  peals  were  heard 

Full  fifteen  leagues  about. 

She  said  there  was  a  little  bark 

Upon  the  roaring  wave, 
And  there  was  a  woman  there  who'd  been 

To  see  her  husband's  grave. 


GONDOLINE.  H  I 

And  she  had  got  a  child  in  her  arms, 

It  was  her  only  child, 
And  oft  its  little  infant  pranks 

Her  heavy  heart  beguil'd. 

And  there  was  too  in  that  same  bark, 

A  father  and  his  son ; 
The  lad  was  sickly,  and  the  sire 

Was  old  and  woe-begone. 

And  when  the  tempest  waxed  strong, 
And  the  bark  could  no  more  it  'bide, 

She  said  it  was  jovial  fun  to  hear 
How  the  poor  devils  cried. 

The  mother  clasp'd  her  orphan  child 

Unto  her  breast,  and  wept ; 
And  sweetly  folded  in  her  arms 

The  careless  baby  slept. 

And  she  told  how,  in  the  shape  o'  the  wind, 

As  manfully  it  roar'd, 
She  twisted  her  hand  in  the  infant's  hair 

And  threw  it  overboard. 

And  to  have  seen  the  mother's  pangs, 

'Twas  a  glorious  sight  to  see  ; 
The  crew  could  scarcely  hold  her  down 

From  jumping  in  the  sea. 

The  hag  held  a  lock  of  the  hair  in  her  hand, 
And  it  was  soft  and  fair : 


142  H.    K.    WHITE  S    POEMS. 

It  must  have  been  a  lovely  child, 
To  have  had  such  lovely  hair. 

And  she  said,  the  father  in  his  arms 

He  held  his  sickly  son, 
And  his  dying  throes  they  fast  arose, 

His  pains  were  nearly  done. 

And  she  throttled  the  youth  with  her  sinewy 
And  his  face  grew  deadly  blue ;  [hands, 

And  his  father  he  tore  his  thin  gray  hair, 
And  kiss'd  the  livid  hue. 

And  then  she  told,  how  she  bored  a  hole 

In  the  bark,  and  it  fill'd  away : 
And  -'twas  rare  to  hear,  how  some  did  swear, 

And  some  did  vow  and  pray. 

The  man  and  woman  they  soon  were  dead, 
The  sailors  their  strength  did  urge  ;      [sheet, 

But  the  billows  that  beat  were  their  winding- 
And  the  winds  sung  their  funeral  dirge. 

She  threw  the  infant's  hair  in  the  fire, 

The  red  flame  flamed  high, 
And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily, 

The  second  begun  :  She  said  she  had  done 
The  tastf  that  Queen  Hecat'  had  set  her, 

And  that  the  devil,  the  father  of  evil, 
Had  never  accomplish'd  a  better. 


GONDOLINE.  143 

She  said,  there  was  an  aged  woman, 

And  she  had  a  daughter  fair, 
Whose  evil  habits  fill'd  her  heart 

With  misery  and  care. 

The  daughter  had  a  paramour, 

A  wicked  man  was  he, 
And  oft  the  woman  him  against 

Did  murmur  grievously. 

And  the  hag  had  work'd  the  daughter  up 

To  murder  her  old  mother, 
That  then  she  might  seize  on  all  her  goods, 

And  wanton  with  her  lover. 

And  one  night  as  the  old  woman 

Was  sick  and  ill  in  bed, 
And  pondering  sorely  on  the  life 

Her  wicked  daughter  led, 

She  heard  her  footstep  on  the  floor, 

And  she  raised  her  pallid  head, 
And  she  saw  her  daughter,  with  a  knife, 

Approaching  to  her  bed. 

And  said,  My  child,  I'm  very  ill, 

I  have  not  long  to  live, 
Now  kiss  my  cheek,  that  ere  I  die 

Thy  sins  I  may  forgive. 

And  the  murderess  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek, 
And  she  lifted  the  sharp  bright  knife, 


144  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  the  mother  saw  her  fell  intent, 
And  hard  she  begg'd  for  life. 

But  prayers  would  nothing  her  avail, 
And  she  scream'd  aloud  with  fear, 

But  the  house  was  lone,  and  the  piercing  screams 
Could  reach  no  human  ear. 

And  though  that  she  was  sick,  and  old, 

She  struggled  hard,  and  fought ; 
The  murderess  cut  three  fingers  through 

Ere  she  could  reach  her  throat. 

And  the  hag  she  held  the  fingers  up, 

The  skin  was  mangled  sore, 
And  they  all  agreed  a  nobler  deed 

Was  never  done  before. 

And  she  threw  the  ringers  in  the  fire, 

The  red  flame  flamed  high, 
And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

The  third  arose  ;  She  said  she'd  been 

To  Holy  Palestine ; 
And  seen  more  blood  in  one  short  day, 

Than  they  had  all  seen  in  nine. 

Now  Gondoline,  with  fearful  steps, 

Drew  nearer  to  the  flame, 
For  much  she  dreaded  now  to  hear 

Her  hapless  lover's  name. 


GONDOLINE.  145 

The  hag  related  then  the  sports 

Of  that  eventful  day, 
When  on  the  well-contested  field 

Full  fifteen  thousand  lay. 

She  said  that  she  in  human  gore 

Above  the  knees  did  wade, 
And  that  no  tongue  could  truly  tell 

The  tricks  she  there  had  play'd. 

There  was  a  gallant-featured  youth, 

Who  like  a  hero  fought ; 
He  kiss'd  a  bracelet  on  his  wrist, 

And  every  danger  sought. 

And  in  a  vassal's  garb  disguised, 

Unto  the  knight  she  sues, 
And  tells  him  she  from  Britain  comes 

And  brings  unwelcome  news. 

That  three  days  ere  she  had  embark'd, 

His  love  had  given  her  hand 
Unto  a  wealthy  Thane  : — and  thought 

Him  dead  in  holy  land. 

And  to  have  seen  how  he  did  writhe 

When  this  her  tale  she  told, 
It  would  have  made  a  wizard's  blood 

Within  his  heart  run  cold. 

Then  fierce  he  spurr'd  his  warrior  steed, 
And  sought  the  battle's  bed  : 
13 


146  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  soon  all  mangled  o'er  with  wounds, 
He  on  the  cold  turf  bled. 

And  from  his  smoking  corse  she  tore 

His  head,  half  clove  in  two, 
She  ceas'd,  and  from  beneath  her  garb 

The  bloody  trophy  drew. 

The  eyes  were  starting  from  their  socks, 

The  mouth  it  ghastly  grinn'd, 
And  there  was  a  gash  across  the  brow, 

The  scalp  was  nearly  skinn'd. 

'Twas  Bertrand's  head ! !  With  a  terrible  scream, 

The  maiden  gave  a  spring, 
And  from  her  fearful  hiding  place 

She  fell  into  the  ring. 

The  lights  they  fled— the  cauldron  sunk, 

Deep  thunders  shook  the  dome, 
And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  came 

Resounding  through  the  gloom. 

Insensible  the  maiden  lay 

Upon  the  hellish  ground, 
And  still  mysterious  sounds  were  heard 

At  intervals  around. 

She  woke — she  half  arose, — and  wild, 

She  cast  a  horrid  glare, 
The  sounds  had  ceased,  the  lights  had  fled, 

And  all  was  stillness  there. 


GONDOLINE.  147 

And  through  an  awning  in  the  rock, 

The  moon  it  sweetly  shone, 
And  show'd  a  river  in  the  cave 

Which  dismally  did  moan. 

The  stream  was  black,  it  sounded  deep, 

As  it  rush'd  the  rocks  between, 
It  offer'd  well,  for  madness  fired 

The  breast  of  Gondoline. 

She  plunged  in,  the  torrent  moan'd 

With  its  accustom'd  sound, 
And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  loud 

Again  rebellow'd  round. 

The  maid  was  seen  no  more. — But  oft 

Her  ghost  is  known  to  glide, 
At  midnight's  silent,  solemn  hour, 

Along  the  ocean's  side. 


LINES. 

WRITTEN    ON    A    SURVEY    OP    THE    HEAVENS. 

In  the  Morning  before  Day-break. 

Ye  many  twinkling  stars,  who  yet  do  hold 

Your  brilliant  places  in  the  sable  vault 

Of  night's  dominions ! — Planets,  and  central  orbs 

Of  other  systems : — big  as  the  burning  sun 

Which  lights  this  nether  globe, — yet  to  our  eye 

Small  as  the  glow-worm's  lamp  ! — To  you  I  raise 

My  lowly  orisons,  while,  all  bewilder'd, 

My  vision  strays  o'er  your  ethereal  hosts ; 

Too  vast,  too  boundless  for  our  narrow  mind, 

Warp'd  with  low  prejudices,  to  unfold, 

And  sagely  comprehend.     Thence  higher  soaring, 

Through  ye  I  raise  my  solemn  thoughts  to  Him, 

The  mighty  Founder  of  this  wondrous  maze, 

The  great  Creator !  Him  !  who  now  sublime, 

Wrapt  in  the  solitary  amplitude 

Of  boundless  space,  above  the  rolling  spheres 

Sits  on  his  silent  throne,  and  meditates. 

The  angelic  hosts,  in  their  inferior  Heaven, 
Hymn  to  the  golden  harps  his  praise  sublime, 
Repeating  loud,  "The  Lord  our  God  is  great," 
In  varied  harmonies. — The  glorious  sounds 
Roll  o'er  the  air  serene — The  ^olian  spheres, 
Harping  along  their  viewless  boundaries, 
148 


ON    A   SURVEY    OP    THE    HEAVENS.          149 

Catch  the  full  note,  and  cry,  "The  Lord  is  great," 
Responding  to  the  Seraphim. — O'er  all 
From  orb  to  orb,  to  the  remotest  verge 
Of  the  created  world,  the  sound  is  borne, 
Till  the  whole  universe  is  full  of  Him. 

Oh  !  'tis  this  heavenly  harmony  which  now 
In  fancy  strikes  upon  my  listening  ear, 
And  thrills  my  inmost  soul.     It  bids  rne  smile 
On  the  vain  world,  and  all  its  bustling  cares, 
And  gives  a  shadowy  glimpse  of  future  bliss. 
Oh  !  what  is  man,  when  at  ambition's  height, 
What  even  are  kings,  when  balanced  in  the  scale 
Of  these  stupendous  worlds  !  Almighty  God ! 
Thou,  the  dread  author  of  these  wondrous  works ! 
Say,  canst  thou  cast  on  me,  poor  passing  worm, 
One  look  of  kind  benevolence  ? — Thou  canst ; 
For  Thou  art  full  of  universal  love, 
And  in  thy  boundless  goodness  wilt  impart 
Thy  beams  as  well  to  me  as  to  the  proud, 
The  pageant  insects  of  a  glittering  hour. 

Oh  !  when  reflecting  on  these  truths  sublime, 
How  insignificant  do  all  the  joys, 
The  gaudes,  and  honours  of  the  world  appear  ! 
How  vain  ambition  !  Why  has  my  wakeful  lamp 
Outwatch'd  the  slow-paced  night  ? — Why  on  the 

page, 

The  schoolman's  labour'd  page,  have  I  employ'd 
The  hours  devoted  by  the  world  to  rest, 
And  needful  to  recruit  exhausted  nature  ? 
Say  can  the  voice  of  narrow  Fame  repay 
13* 


150  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

The  loss  of  health  ?  or  can  the  hope  of  glory 
Lend  a  new  throb  unto  my  languid  heart, 
Cool,  even  now,  my  feverish  aching  brow, 
Relume  the  fires  of  this  deep-sunken  eye, 
Or  paint  new  colours  on  this  pallid  cheek  ? 

Say,  foolish  one — can  that  unbodied  fame, 
For  which  thou  barterest  health  and  happiness, 
Say,  can  it  soothe  the  slumbers  of  the  grave  ? 
Give  a  new  zest  to  bliss,  or  chase  the  pangs 
Of  everlasting  punishment  condign  ? 
Alas  !  how  vain  are  mortal  man's  desires  ! 
How  fruitless  his  pursuits  !  Eternal  God  ! 
Guide  Thou  my  footsteps  in  the  way  of  truth, 
And  oh  !  assist  me  so  to  live  on  earth, 
That  I  may  die  in  peace,  and  claim  a  place 
In  thy  high  dwelling. — All  but  this  is  folly, 
The  vain  illusions  of  deceitful  life. 


LINES, 

SUPPOSED  TO   BE  SPOKEN  BY  A   LOVER  AT 
THE  GRAVE  OP  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Occasioned  by  a  Situation  in  a  Romance. 

MARY,  the  moon  is  sleeping  on  thy  grave, 
And  on  the  turf  thy  lover  sad"  is  kneeling, 
The  big  tear  in  his  eye. — Mary,  awake, 
From  thy  dark  house  arise,  and  bless  his  sight 


THE    LOVER'S    LAMENT.  151 

On  the  pale  moonbeam  gliding.     Soft,  and  low 
Pour  on  the  silver  ear  of  night  thy  tale, 
Thy  whisper'd  tale  of  comfort  and  of  love, 
To  soothe  thy  Edward's  lorn,  distracted  soul, 
And  cheer  his  breaking  heart. — Come,  as  thou 

didst, 

When  o'er  the  barren  moors  the  night  wind  howl'd, 
And  the  deep  thunders  shook  the  ebon  throne 
Of  the  startled  night. — 0 !  then,  as  lone  reclining, 
I  listen  d  sadly  to  the  dismal  storm, 
Thou  on  the  lambent  lightnings  wild  careering 
Didst  strike  my  moody  eye  ; — dead  pale  thou  wert, 
Yet  passing  lovely. — Thou  didst  smile  upon  me, 
And  oh  !  thy  voice  it  rose  so  musical, 
Betwixt  the  hollow  pauses  of  the  storm, 
That  at  the  sound  the  winds  forgot  to  rave, 
And  the  stern  demon  of  the  tempest,  charm'd, 
Sunk  on  his  rocking  throne  to  still  repose, 
Lock'd  in  the  arms  of  silence. 

Spirit  of  her ! 

My  only  love  ! — 0  !  now  again  arise, 
And  let  once  more  thine  aery  accents  fall 
Soft  on  my  listening  ear.     The  night  is  calm, 
The  gloomy  willows  wave  in  sinking  cadence 
With  the  stream  that  sweeps  below.      Divinely 

swelling 

On  the  still  air,  the  distant  waterfall 
Mingles  its  melody ; — and,  high  above, 
The  pensive  empress  of  the  solemn  night, 
Fitful,  emerging  from  the  rapid  clouds, 
Shows  her  chaste  face  in  the  meredian  sky. 
No  wicked  elves  upon  the  Warlock-knoll 


152  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Dare  now  assemble  at  their  mystic  revels ; 
It  is  a  night,  when  from  their  primrose  beds, 
The  gentle  ghosts  of  injured  innocents 
Are  known  to  rise,  and  wander  on  the  breeze, 
Or  take  their  stand  by  the  oppressor's  couch, 
And  strike  grim  terror  to  his  guilty  soul.  • 
The  spirit  of  my  love  might  now  awake, 
And  hold  its  custom'd  converse. 

Mary,  lo ! 

Thy  Edward  kneels  upon  thy  verdant  grave, 
And  calls  upon  thy  name. — The  breeze  that  blows 
On  his  wan  cheek  will  soon  sweep  over  him 
In  solemn  music,  a  funereal  dirge, 
Wild  and  most  sorrowful. — His  cheek  is  pale, 
The  worm  that  play'd  upon  thy  youthful  bloom, 
It  canker'd  green  on  his. — Now  lost  he  stands, 
The  ghost  of  what  he  was,  and  the  cold  dew 
Which  bathes  his  aching  temples  gives  sure  omen 
Of  speedy  dissolution. — Mary,  soon 
Thy  love  will  lay  his  pallid  cheek  to  thine, 
And  sweetly  will  he  sleep  with  thee  in  death. 


MY  STUDY. 

A  Letter  in  Hudibrastic  Verse. 

You  bid  me,  Ned  describe  the  place 
Where  I,  one  of  the  rhyming  race, 
Pursue  my  studies  con  amore, 
And  wanton  with  the  muse  in  glory. 


MY    STUDY.  153 

Well,  figure  to  your  senses  straight, 

Upon  the  house's  topmost  height, 

A  closet,  just  six  feet  by  four, 

With  white-wash'd  walls  and  plaster  floor, 

So  noble  large,  'tis  scarcely  able 

To  admit  a  single  chair  and  table  : 

And  (lest  the  muse  should  die  with  cold) 

A  smoky  grate  my  fire  to  hold : 

So  wondrous  small,  'twould  much  it  pose 

To  melt  the  ice-drop  on  one's  nose  , 

And  yet  so  big,  it  covers  o'er 

Full  half  the  spacious  room  and  more. 

A  window  vainly  stufFd  about, 
To  keep  November's  breezes  out, 
So  crazy,  that  the  panes  proclaim, 
That  soon  they  mean  to  leave  the  frame. 

My  furniture  I  sure  may  crack — 

A  broken  chair  without  a  back ; 

A  table  wanting  just  two  legs, 

One  end  sustain'd  by  wooden  pegsj 

A  desk — of  that  I  am  not  fervent, 

The  work  of,  Sir,  your  humble  servant ; 

(Who,  though  I  say't,  am  no  such  fumbler;) 

A  glass  decanter  and  a  tumbler, 

From  which  my  night-parch'd  throat  I  lave, 

Luxurious,  with  the  limpid  wave. 

A  chest  of   drawers,  in  antique  sections, 

And  saw'd  by  me  in  all  directions ; 

So  small,  Sir,  that  whoever  views  'em 

Swears  nothing  but  a  doll  could  use  'em. 


154  a.  x.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

To  these,  if  you  will  add  a  store 

Of  oddities  upon  the  floor, 

A  pair  of  globes,  electric  balls, 

Scales,  quadrants,  prisms,  and  cobbler's  awls, 

And  crowds  of  books,  on  rotten  shelves, 

Octavos,  folios,  quartos,  twelves: 

I  think,  dear  Ned,  you  curious  dog, 

You'll  have  my  earthly  catalogue. 

But  stay, — I  nearly  had  left  out 

My  bellows  destitute  of   snout ; 

And  on  the  walls, — Good  Heavens!  why  there 

I've  such  a  load  of  precious  ware, 

Of  heads,  and  coins,  and  silver  medals, 

And  organ  works,  and  broken  pedals; 

(For  I  was  once  a-building  music, 

Though  soon  of  that  employ  I  grew  sick;) 

And  skeletons  of  laws  which  shoot 

All  out  of  one  primordial  root; 

That  you,  at  such  a  sight,  would  swear 

Confusion's  self  had  settled  there. 

There  stands,  just  by  a  broken  sphere, 

A  Cicero  without  an  ear, 

A  neck,  on  which,  by  logic  good, 

I  know  for  sure  a  head  once  stood; 

But  who  it  was  the  able  master 

Had  moulded  in  the  mimic  plaster, 

Whether  'twas  Pope,  or  Coke,  or  Burn, 

I  never  yet  could  justly  learn: 

But  knowing  well,  that  any  head 

Is  made  to  answer  for  the  dead, 

(And  sculptors  first  their  faces  frame, 

And  after  pitch  upon  a  name, 


MY    STUDY.  155 

Nor  think  it  aught  a  misnomer 

To  christen  Chaucer's  busto  Homer,       [know, 

Because  they  both  have  beards,  which,  you 

Will  mark  them  well  from  Joan,  and  Juno,) 

For  some  great  man,  I  could  not  tell 

But  NECK  might  answer  just  as  well, 

So  perch'd  it  up,  all  in  a  row 

With  Chatham  and  with  Cicero. 

Then  all  around  in  just  degree, 
A  range  of  portraits  you  may  see, 
Of  mighty  men  and  eke  of  women, 
Who  are  no  whit  inferior  to  men. 

With  these  fair  dames,  and  heroes  round, 

I  call  my  garret  classic  ground. 

For  though  confined,  'twill  well  contain 

The  ideal  flights  of  Madam  Brain. 

No  dungeon's  walls,  no  cell  confined, 

Can  cramp  the  energies  of  mind ! 

Thus,  though  my  heart  may  seem  so  small, 

I've  friends,  and  'twill  contain  them  all; 

And  should  it  e'er  become  so  cold 

That  these  it  will  no  longer  hold, 

No  more  may  Heaven  her  blessings  give, 

I  shall  not  then  be  fit  to  live. 


TO  AN  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 


MILD  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire ! 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine, 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms, 

And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee  when  young  Spring  first  questioned  Winter's 

sway, 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight, 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 

To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone, 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity,  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  rears  her  head, 

Obscure  and  unobserved; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows, 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast, 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 

156 


SONNETS. 

SONNET   I. 
To  the  River  Trent.     Written  on  Recovery  from  Sickness. 

ONCE  more,  0  Trent !  along  thy  pebbly  marge 

A  pensive  invalid,  reduced  and  pale, 
From  the  close  sick-room  newly  let  at  large, 
Wooes  to  his  wan- worn  cheek  the  pleasant  gale. 
0 !  to  his  ear  how  musical  the  tale 

Which  fills  with  joy  the  throstle's  little  throat ! 
And  all  the  sounds  which  on  the  fresh  breeze  sail, 

How  wildly  novel  on  his  senses  float! 
It  was  on  this  that  many  a  sleepless  night, 

As,  lone,  he  watch'd  the  taper's  sickly  gleam, 
And  at  his  casement  heard,  with  wild  affright, 
The  owl's  dull  wing  and  melancholy  scream, 
On  this  he  thought,  this,  this  his  sole  desire, 
Thus  once  again  to  hear  the  warbling  woodland 
choir. 


SONNET  II. 

GIVE  me  a  cottage  on  some  Cambrian  wild, 
Where,  far  from  cities,  I  may  spend  my  days, 

And,  by  the  beauties  of  the  scene  beguiled, 
May  pity  man's  pursuits,  and  shun  his  ways. 
14  157 


158  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

While  on  the  rock  I  mark  the  browsing  goat, 

List  to  the  mountain-torrent's  distant  noise, 
Or  the  hoarse  bittern's  solitary  note, 

I  shall  not  want  the  world's  delusive  joys; 
But  with  my  little  scrip,  my  book,  my  lyre, 

Shall  think  my  lot  complete,  nor  covet  more ; 
And  when,  with  time,  shall  wane  the  vital  fire, 

I'll  raise  my  pillow  on  the  desert  shore, 
And  lay  me  down  to  rest  where  the  wild  wave 
Shall  make  sweet  music  o'er  my  lonely  grave. 


SONNET  III  * 


Supposed  to  have  been  addressed  by  a  female  lunatic  to 
a  Lady. 


LADY,  thou  weepest  for  the  Maniac's  wo, 

And  thou  art  fair,  and  thou,  like  me,  art  young; 
Oh !  may  thy  bosom  never,  never  know  [wrung. 

The  pangs  with  which  my  wretched  heart  is 
1  had  a  mother  once — a  brother  too — 

(Beneath  yon  yew  my  father  rests  his  head:) 
I  had  a  lover  once, — and  kind,  and  true, 

But  mother,  brother,  lover,  all  are  fled ! 
Yet,  whence  the  tear  which  dims  thy  lovely  eye? 

Oh !  gentle  lady — not  for  me  thus  weep, 
The  green  sod  soon  upon  my  breast  will  lie, 

And  soft  and  sound  will  be  my  peaceful  sleep. 

„,  This  Quatorzain  had  its  rise  from  an  elegant  Sonnnet, 
"occasioned  by  seeing  a  young  Female  Lunatic,"  written 
Dy  Mrs.  Lofll,  and  published  in  the  Monthly  Mirror. 


SONNETS.  159 

Go  thou  and  pluck  the  roses  while  they  bloom — 
My  hopes  lie  buried  in  the  silent  tomb. 


SONNET  IV. 

Supposed  to  be  written  by  the  unhappy  Poet  Dermody,  in 
a  Storm,  while  on  board  a  Ship  in  his  Majesty's  Service. 

Lo !  o'er  the  welkin  the  tempestuous  clouds 
Successive  fly,  and  the  loud-piping  wind 
Rocks  the  poor  sea-boy  on  the  dripping  shrouds, 

While  the  pale  pilot,  o'er  the  helm  reclined 
Lists  to  the  changeful  storm :  and  as  he  plies 
His  wakeful  task,  he  oft  bethinks  him  sad, 
Of  wife  and  little  home,  and  chubby  lad, 
And  the  half-strangled  tear  bedews  his  eyes ; 
I,  on  the  deck,  musing  on  themes  forlorn, 

View  the  drear  tempest,  and  the  yawning  deep, 
Nought  dreading  in  the  green  sea's  caves  to  sleep, 
For  not  for  me  shall  wife  or  children  mourn, 
And  the  wild  winds  will  ring  my  funeral  knell 
Sweetly,  as  solemn  peal  of  pious  passing-bell. 


SONNET  V. 

THE    WINTER    TRAVELLER. 

GOD  help  thee,  Traveller,  on  thy  journey  far ; 
The  wind  is  bitter  keen, — the  snow  overlays 
The  hidden  pits,  and  dangerous  hollow  ways, 

And  darkness  will  involve  thee. — No  kind  star 


160  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

To-night  will  guide  thee,  Traveller,— and  the  war 
Of  winds  and  elements  on  thy  head  will  break, 
And  in  thy  agonizing  ear  the  shriek 

Of  spirits  howling  on  their  stormy  car, 

Will  often  ring  appalling — I  portend 

A  dismal  night — and  on  my  wakeful  bed 
Thoughts,  Traveller,  of  thee  will  fill  my  head, 

And  him  who  rides  where  winds  and  waves  con- 
tend, 

And  strives,  rude  cradled  on  the  seas,  to  guide 

His  lonely  bark  through  the  tempestuous  tide. 


SONNET  VI. 

BT  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ. 

This  Sonnet  was  addressed  to  the  Author  of  this  Volume, 
and  was  occasioned  by  several  little  Quatorzains,  mis- 
nomered  Sonnets,  which  he  published  in  the  Monthly 
Mirror.  He  begs  leave  to  return  his  thanks  to  the  much 
respected  writer,  for  the  permission  so  politely  granted 
to  insert  it  here,  and  for  the  good  opinion  he  has  been 
pleased  to  express  of  his  productions. 

Ye,  whose  aspirings  court  the  muse  of  lays, 
"  Severest  of  those  orders  which  belong, 
Distinct  and  separate,  to  Delphic  song," 

Why  shun  the  Sonnet's  undulating  maze  ? 

And  why  its  name,  boast  of  Petrarchian  days, 
Assume,  its  rules  disown'd?  whom  from  the 
throng 

The  muse  selects,  their  ear  the  charm  obeys 
Of  its  full  harmony : — they  fear  to  wrong 


SONNETS.  161 

The  Sonnet,  by  adorning  with  a  name 

Of  that  distinguished  import,  lays,  though  sweet, 
Yet  not  in  magic  texture  taught  to  meet 
Of  that  so  varied  and  peculiar  frame. 
0  think !  to  vindicate  its  genuine  praise 

Those  it  beseems,  whose  Lyre  a  favouring  im- 
pulse sways 


SONNET  VII. 
Recantatory,  in  reply  to  the  foregoing  elegant  Admonition. 

LET  the  sublimer  muse,  who,  wrapt  in  night, 
Rides  on  the  raven  pennons  of  the  storm, 
Or  o'er  the  field,  with  purple  havoc  warm, 
Lashes  her  steeds,  and  sings  along  the  fight, 
Let  her,  whom  more  ferocious  strains  delight, 
Disdain  the  plaintive  Sonnet's  little  form, 
And  scorn  to  its  wild  cadence  to  conform 
The  impetuous  tenor  of  her  hardy  flight. 
But  me,  far  lowest  of  the  sylvan  train, 

Who  wake  the  wood-nymphs  from  the  forest 
shade  [aid 

With  wildest  song; — Me,  much  behoves  thy 
Of  mingled  melody,  to  grace  my  strain, 
And  give  it  power  to  please,  as  soft  it  flows 
Through  the  smooth  murmurs  of  thy  frequent  close. 


14 


162  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

SONNET  VIII. 
On  hearing  the  Sounds  of  an  Eolian  Harp. 

So  ravishingly  soft  upon  the  tide 
Of  the  infuriate  gust,  it  did  career, 
It  might  have  sooth'd  its  rugged  charioteer, 
And  sunk  him  to  a  zephyr ; — then  it  died, 
Melting  in  melody ; — and  I  descried, 

Borne  to  some  wizard  stream,  the  form  appear 
Of  druid  sage,  who  on  the  far-off  ear 
Pour'd  his  lone  song,  to  which  the  surge  replied : 
Or  thought  I  heard  the  hapless  pilgrim's  knell, 
Lost  in  some  wild  enchanted  forest's  bounds, 
By  unseen  beings  sung ;  or  are  these  sounds 
Such,  as  'tis  said,  at  night  are  known  to  swell 
By  startled  shepherd  on  the  lonely  heath, 
Keeping  his  night-watch  sad  portending  death  ? 


SONNET  IX. 

WHAT  art  thou,  MIGHTY  ONE  !  and  where  thy 
seat? 

Thou  broodest  on  the  calm  that  ch    rs  the  lands, 

And  thou  dost  bear  within  thine  awful  hands 
The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet, 
Stern  on  thy  dark-wrought  car  of  cloud  and  wind, 

Thou  guid'st  the  northern  storm  at  night's  dead 
noon, 

Or  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  Monsoon, 
Disturb 'st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Ind. 


A   BALLAD.  163 

In  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 
Dost  thou  repose  ?  or  in  the  solitude 

Of  sultry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 

Hears  nightly  howl  the  tiger's  hungry  brood  ? 

Vain  thought !  the  confines  of  his  throne  to  trace, 

Who  glows  through  all  the  fields  of  boundless 
space. 


A  BALLAD. 

BE  hush'd,  be  hush'd,  ye  bitter  winds, 

Ye  pelting  rains  a  little  rest : 
Lie  still,  lie  still,  ye  busy  thoughts, 

That  wring  with  grief  my  aching  breast. 

Oh !  cruel  was  my  faithless  love, 
To  triumph  o'er  an  artless  maid ; 

Oh !  cruel  was  my  faithless  love, 

To  leave  the  breast  by  him  betray 'd. 

When  exiled  from  my  native  home, 
He  should  have  wiped  the  bitter  tear; 

Nor  left  me  faint  and  lone  to  roam, 
A  heart-sick  weary  wanderer  here. 

My  child  moans  sadly  in  my  arms, 
The  winds  they  will  not  let  it  sleep  : 

Ah,  little  knows  the  hapless  babe 

What  makes  its  wretched  mother  weep ! 


164  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Now  lie  thee  still,  my  infant  dear, 
I  cannot  bear  thy  sobs  to  see, 

Harsh  is  thy  father,  little  one, 
And  never  will  he  shelter  thee. 

Oh,  that  I  were  but  in  my  grave. 

And  winds  were  piping  o'er  me  loud, 
And  thou,  my  poor,  my  orphan  babe, 

Were  nestling  in  thy  mother's  shroud ! 


THE  LULLABY. 

OF    A    FEMALE    CONVICT    TO     HER    CHILD,    THE 
NIGHT     PREVIOUS    TO     EXECUTION. 

SLEEP,  baby  mine,*  enkerchieft  on  my  bosom, 
Thy  cries  they  pierce  again  my  bleeding  breast 

Sleep,  baby  mine,  not  long  thou'lt  have  a  mothei 
To  lull  thee  fondly  hi  her  arms  to  rest. 

Baby,  why  dost  thou  keep  this  sad  complaining, 
Long  from  mine  eyes  have  kindly  slumbers  fled, 

Hush,  hush,  my  babe,  the  night  is  quickly  waning, 
And  I  would  fain  compose  my  aching  head. 


Poor  wayward  wretch !  and  who  will  heed  thy 

weeping, 
When  soon  an  outcast  on  the  world  thou'lt  be : 

*  Sir  Phillip  Sidney  has  a  poem  beginning,  "  Sleep,  Baby 


THE   J.ULLABY.  165 

Who  then  will  soothe  thee,  when  thy  mother's 

sleeping 
In  her  low  grave  of  shame  and  infamy ! 

Sleep,  baby  mine — To-morrow  I  must  leave  thee, 
And  I  would  snatch  an  interval  of  rest  : 

Sleep  these  last  moments,  ere  the  laws  bereave 

thee, 
For  never  more  thou'lt  press  a  mother's  breast. 


POEMS 
OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


167 


ODE, 

ADDRESSED    TO     H.    FUSELI,    ESQ.    R.    A. 

On  seeing  Engravings  from  his  Designs. 

MIGHTY  magician  !  who  on  Torneo's  brow, 
When  sullen  tempests  wrap  the  throne  of  night, 
Art  wont  to  sit  and  catch  the  gleam  of  light, 

That  shoots  athwart  the  gloom  opaque  below  ; 

And  listen  to  the  distant  death-shriek  long 
From  lonely  mariner  foundering  in  the  deep, 
Which  rises  slowly  up  the  rocky  steep, 

While  the  weird  sisters  weave  the  horrid  song : 
Or  when  along  the  liquid  sky 
Serenely  chant  the  orbs  on  high, 
Dost  love  to  sit  in  musing  trance, 
And  mark  the  northern  meteor's  dance, 
(While  far  below  the  fitful  oar 
Flings  its  faint  pauses  on  the  steepy  shore,) 
And  list  the  music  of  the  breeze, 
That  sweeps  by  fits  the  bending  seas ; 
And  often  bears  with  sudden  swell 
The  shipwreck'd  sailor's  funeral  knell, 
By  the  spirits  sung,  who  keep 
Their  night-watch  on  the  treacherous  deep, 
And  guide  the  wakeful  helms-man's  eye 
To  Helice  in  northern  sky  : 
And  there  upon  the  rock  inclined 
With  mighty  visions  fill'st  the  mind, 

15  169 


170  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Such  as  bound  in  magic  spell 
Him*  who  grasp'd  the  gates  of  Hell, 
And  bursting  Pluto's  dark  domain, 
Held  to  the  day  the  terrors  of  his  reign. 

Genius  of  Horror  and  romantic  awe, 

Whose  eye  explores  the  secrets  of  the  deep, 
Whose  power  can  bid  the  rebel  fluids  creep, 

Can  force  the  inmost  soul  to  own  its  law ; 
Who  shall  now,  sublimest  spirit, 
Who  shall  now  thy  wand  inherit, 
From  himt  thy  darling  child  who  best 
Thy  shuddering  images  express'd  ? 
Sullen  of  soul,  and  stern  and  proud, 
His  gloomy  spirit  spurn'd  the  crowd, 
And  now  he  lays  his  aching  head 

In  the  dark  mansion  of  the  silent  dead. 

Mighty  magician !  long  thy  wand  has  lain 
Buried  beneath  the  unfathomable  deep ; 
And  oh !  for  ever  must  its  efforts  sleep, 

May  none  the  mystic  sceptre  e'er  regain ! 
Oh  yes,  'tis  his ! — Thy  other  son ; 
He  throws  thy  dark-wrought  tunic  on, 
Fuesslin  waves  thy  wand, — again  they  rise, 
Again  thy  wildering  forms  salute  our  ravish'd 
eyes, 

Him  didst  thou  cradle  on  the  dizzy  steep 

Where  round  his  head  the  volley'd  lightnings 

flung, 
And  the  loud  winds  that  round  his  pillow  rung, 

Wooed  the  stern  infant  to  the  arms  of  sleep. 

*Dant*  flbid. 


ODES.  171 

Or  on  the  highest  top  of  Teneriffe 
Seated  the  fearless  boy,  and  bade  him  look 

Where  far  below  the  weather-beaten  skiff 
On  the  gulf  bottom  of  the  ocean  strook. 
Thou  mark'dst  him  drink  with  ruthless  ear 

The  death-sob,  and,  disdaining  rest, 
Thop  saw'st  how  danger  fired  his  breast, 
And  in  his  young  hand  couch'd  the  visionary  spear. 
Then,  Superstition,  at  thy  call, 
She  bore  the  boy  to  Odin's  Hall, 
And  set  before  his  awe-struck  sight 
The  savage  feast  and  spectred  fight ; 
And  summon'd  from  his  mountain  tomb 
The  ghastly  warrior  son  of  gloom, 
His  fabled  Runic  rhymes  to  sing, 
While  fierce  Hresvelger  flapp'd  his  wingj 
Thou  showMst  the  trains  the  shepherd 
Laid  on  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Which  on  the  mists  of  evening  gleam, 
Or  crowd  the  foaming  desert  stream ; 
Lastly  her  storied  hand  she  waves, 
And  lays  him  in  Florentian  caves ; 
There  milder  fables,  lovelier  themes, 
Enwrap  his  soul  in  heavenly  dreams, 
There  Pity's  lute  arrest*  his  ear, 
And  draws  the  half-reluctant  tear ; 
And  now  at  noon  of  night  he  roves 
Along  the  embowering  moonlight  groves, 
And  as  from  many  a  cavern'd  dell 
The  hollow  wind  is  heard  to  swell, 
He  thinks  some  troubled  spirit  sighs  j 
And  as  upon  the  turf  he  lies, 


172  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Where  sleeps  the  silent  beam  of  night, 
He  sees  below  the  gliding  sprite, 
And  hears  in  Fancy's  organs  sound 
Aerial  music  warbling  round. 

Taste  lastly  comes  and  smoothes  the  whole, 
And  breathes  her  polish  o'er  his  soul ; 
Glowing  with  wild,  yet  chasten'd  heat, 
The  wondrous  work  is  now  complete. 

The  Poet  dreams  .-—The  shadow  flies, 
And  fainting  fast  its  image  dies. 
But  lo  !  the  Painter's  magic  force 
Arrests  the  phantom's  fleeting  course : 
It  lives — it  lives — the  canvass  glows, 
And  tenfold  vigour  o'er  it  flows. 

The  Bard  beholds  the  work  achieved, 
And  as  he  sees  the  shadow  rise, 
Sublime  before  his  wondering  eyes, 

Starts  at  the  image  his  own  mind  conceived. 


ODE, 

ADDRESSED    TO     THE    EARL    OP    CARLISLE,    K.    O. 

RETIRED,  remote  from  human  noise, 

A  humble  Poet  dwelt  serene ; 
His  lot  was  lowly,  yet  his  joys 

Were  manifold,  I  ween. 
He  laid  him  by  the  brawling  brook 

At  eventide  to  ruminate, 


ODES.  173 

He  watch'd  the  swallow  skimming  round, 
And  mused,  in  reverie  profound, 

On  wayward  man's  unhappy  state, 

And  ponder'd  much,  and  paused  on  deeds  of 
ancient  date. 

II.  1. 

"  Oh,  'twas  not  always  thus,"  he  cried, 

"  There  was  a  time,  when  Genius  claimed 
Respect  from  even  towering  Pride, 

Nor  hung  her  head  ashamed : 
But  now  to  Wealth  alone  we  bow, 

The  titled  and  the  rich  alone 
Are  honour'd,  while  meek  Merit  pines, 
On  Penury's  wretched  couch  reclines, 
Unheeded  in  his  dying  moan, 
As  overwhelmed  with  want  and  wo,  he  sinks 
unknown. 

III.  1. 

"  Yet  was  the  muse  not  always  seen 
In  Poverty's  dejected  mien, 
Not  always  did  repining  rue, 
And  misery  her  steps  pursue. 
Time  was,  when  nobles  thought  their  titles  graced, 
By  the  sweet  honours  of  poetic  bays, 
When  Sidney  sung  his  melting  song, 
When  Sheffield  joined  the  harmonious  throng, 
And  Lyttleton  attuned  to  love  his  lays. 
Those  days  are  gone — alas,  for  ever  gone ! 
No  more  our  nobles  love  to  grace 
15* 


174  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Their  brows  with  anadems,  by  genius  won, 

But  arrogantly  deem  the  muse  as  base ; 
How  different  thought  the  sires  of  this  degenerate 
race  I" 

1.2. 

Thus  sang  the  minstrel : — still  at  eve 
The  upland's  woody  shades  among 
In  broken  measures  did  he  grieve, 

With  solitary  song. 
And  still  his  shame  was  aye  the  same, 
Neglect  had  stung  him  to  the  core ; 
And  he  with  pensive  joy  did  love 
To  seek  the  still  congenial  grove, 

And  muse  on  all  his  sorrows  o'er, 
And  vow  that  he  would  join  the  abjured  world  no 
more. 

II.  2. 

But  human  vows,  how  frail  they  be ! 

Fame  brought  Carlisle  unto  his  view, 
And  all  amazed,  he  thought  to  see 

The  Augustan  age  anew. 
Fill'd  with  wild  rapture,  up  he  rose, 
No  more  he  ponders  on  the  woes, 
Which  erst  he  felt  that  forward  goes, 

Regrets  he'd  sunk  in  impotence, 
And  hails  the  ideal  day  of  virtuous  eminence. 

III.  2. 

Ah !  silly  man,  yet  smarting  sore, 
With  ills  which  in  the  world  he  bore, 


ODES.  175 

Again  on  futile  hope  to  rest, 
An  unsubstantial  prop  at  best, 
And  not  to  know  one  swallow  makes  no  summer! 

Ah !  soon  he'll  find  the  brilliant  gleam, 
Which  flash'd  across  the  hemisphere, 
Illumining  the  darkness  there, 

Was  but  a  single  solitary  beam, 
While  all  around  remain'd  in  custom'd  night. 

Still  leaden  Ignorance  reigns  serene, 
In  the  false  court's  delusive  height, 

And  only  one  Carlisle  is  seen, 
To  illume  the  heavy  gloom  with  pure  and  steady 
light. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  A  SUMMER'S 
EVE. 

Down  the  sultry  arc  of  day 

The  burning  wheels  have  urged  their  way, 

And  eve  along  the  western  skies 

Spreads  her  intermingling  dyes. 

Down  the  deep,  the  miry  lane, 

Creeking  comes  the  empty  wain, 

And  driver  on  the  shaft-horse  sits, 

Whistling  now  and  then  by  fits ; 

And  oft  with  his  accustom'd  call, 

Urging  on  the  sluggish  Ball. 

The  barn  is  still,  the  master's  gone, 

And  thresher  puts  his  jacket  on, 


176  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

While  Dick,  upon  the  ladder  tall, 
Nails  the  dead  kite  to  the  wall. 
Here  comes  shepherd  Jack  at  last, 
He  has  penn'd  the  sheep-cote  fast, 
For  'twas  but  two  nights  before, 
A  lamb  was  eaten  on  the  moor  : 
His  empty  wallet  Rover  carries, 
Now  for  Jack,  when  near  home,  tarries, 
With  lolling  tongue  he  runs  to  try, 
If  the  horse-trough  be  not  dry. 
The  milk  is  settled  in  the  pans, 
And  supper  messes  in  the  cans ; 
In  the  hovel  carts  are  wheel'd, 
And  both  the  colts  are  drove  a-field ; 
The  horses  are  all  bedded  up, 
And  the  ewe  is  with  the  tup, 
The  snare  for  Mister  Fox  is  set, 
The  leaven  laid,  the  thatching  wet, 
And  Bess  has  slirik'd  away  to  talk 
With  Roger  in  the  holly- walk. 

Now,  on  the  settle  all,  but  Bess, 
Are  set  to  eat  their  supper  mess ; 
And  little  Tom  and  roguish  Kate, 
Are  swinging  on  the  meadow  gate. 
Now  they  chat  of  various  things, 
Of  taxes,  ministers,  and  kings, 
Or  else  tell  all  the  village  news, 
How  madam  did  the  squire  refuse  ; 
How  parson  on  his  tithes  was  bent, 
And  landlord  oft  distrained  for  rent. 


TO    CONTEMPLATION.  177 

Thus  do  they  talk,  till  in  the  sky 
The  pale-eyed  moon  is  mounted  high, 
And  from  the  alehouse  drunken  Ned 
Had  reel'd — then  hasten  all  to  bed. 
The  mistress  sees  that  lazy  Kate 
The  heaping  coal  on  kitchen  grate 
Has  laid — while  master  goes  throughout, 
Sees  shutters  fast,  the  mastiff  out, 
The  candles  safe,  the  hearths  all  clear, 
And  nought  from  thieves  or  fire  to  fear ; 
Then  both  to  bed  together  creep, 
And  join  the  general  troop  of  sleep. 


TO  CONTEMPLATION. 

COME,  pensive  sage,  who  lov'st  to  dwell 
In  some  retired  Lapponian  cell, 
Where,  far  from  noise  and  riot  rude, 
Resides  sequester'd  Solitude. 
Come,  and  o'er  my  longing  soul 
Throw  thy  dark  and  russet  stole, 
And  open  to  my  duteous  eyes, 
The  volume  of  thy  mysteries. 

I  will  meet  thee  on  the  hill, 
Where,  with  printless  footsteps  still 
The  morning  in  her  buskin  gray, 
Springs  upon  her  eastern  way ; 
While  the  frolic  zephyrs  stir, 
Playing  with  the  gossamer, 


178  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And,  on  ruder  pinions  borne, 

Shake  the  dew-drops  from  the  thorn. 

There,  as  o'er  the  fields  we  pass, 

Brushing  with  hasty  feet  the  grass, 

We  will  startle  from  her  nest 

The  lively  lark  with  speckled  breast, 

And  hear  the  floating  clouds  among 

Her  gale-transported  matin  song, 

Or  on  the  upland  stile  embower'd, 

With  fragrant  hawthorn  snowy  flower'd. 

Will  sauntering  sit,  and  listen  still 

To  the  herdsman's  oaten  quill, 

Wafted  from  the  plain  below ; 

Or  the  heifer's  frequent  low  ; 

Or  the  milkmaid  in  the  grove, 

Singing  of  one  that  died  for  love. 

Or  when  the  noontide  heats  oppress, 

We  will  seek  the  dark  recess, 

Where,  in  th'  empower'd  translucent  stream, 

The  cattle  shun  the  sultry  beam, 

And  o'er  us  on  the  marge  reclined, 

The  drowsy  fly  her  horn  shall  wind, 

While  Echo,  from  her  ancient  oak, 

Shall  answer  to  the  woodman's  stroke  j 

Or  the  little  peasant's  song, 

Wandering  lone  the  glens  among, 

His  artless  lip  with  berries  dyed, 

And  feet  through  ragged  shoes  descried. 

But  oh  !  when  evening's  virgin  queen 
Sits  on  her  fringed  throne  serene, 


TO    CONTEMPLATION.  179 

And  mingling  whispers  rising  near, 
Still  on  the  still  reposing  ear  : 
While  distant  brooks  decaying  round, 
Augment  the  mix'd  dissolving  sound, 
And  the  zephyr  flitting  by, 
Whispers  mystic  harmony, 
We  will  seek  the  woody  lane, 
By  the  hamlet,  on  the  plain, 
Where  the  weary  rustic  nigh, 
Shall  whistle  his  wild  melody, 
And  the  creaking  wicket  oft 
Shall  echo  from  the  neighbouring  croft  j 
And  as  we  trace  the  green  path  lone, 
With  moss  and  rank  weeds  overgrown, 
We  will  muse  on  pensive  lore 
Till  the  full  soul  brimming  o'er, 
Shall  in  our  upturn'd  eyes  appear, 
Embodied  in  a  quivering  tear. 
Or  else,  serenely  silent,  set 
By  the  brawling  rivulet, 
Which  on  its  calm  unruffled  breast, 
Bears  the  old  mossy  arch  impress'd, 
That  clasps  its  secret  stream  of  glass 
Half  hid  in  shrubs  and  waving  grass, 
The  wood-nymph's.lone  secure  retreat, 
Unpress'd  by  fawn  or  sy Ivan's  feet, 
We'll  watch  in  eve's  ethereal  braid, 
The  rich  vermilion  slowly  fade ; 
Or  catch,  faint  twinkling  from  afar, 
The  first  glimpse  of  the  eastern  star, 
Fair  Vesper,  mildest  lamp  of  light, 
That  heralds  in  imperial  night ; 


180  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Meanwhile,  upon  our  wandering  ear, 
Shall  rise,  though  low,  yet  sweetly  clear, 
The  distant  sounds  of  pastoral  lute, 
Invoking  soft  the  sober  suit 
Of  dimmest  darkness — fitting  well 
With  love,  or  sorrow's  pensive  spell, 
(So  erst  did  music's  silver  tone 
Wake  slumbering  Chaos  on  his  throne.) 
And  haply  then,  with  sudden  swell, 
Shall  roar  the  distant  curfew  bell, 
While  in  the  castle's  mouldering  tower, 
The  hooting  owl  is  heard  to  pour 
Her  melancholy  song,  and  scare 
Dull  Silence  brooding  in  the  air. 
Meanwhile  her  dusk  and  slumbering  car, 
Black-suited  Night  drives  on  from  far, 
And  Cynthia,  'merging  from  her  rear, 
Arrests  the  waxing  darkness  drear, 
And  summons  to  her  silent  call, 
Sweeping,  in  their  airy  pall, 
The  unshrived  ghosts,  in  fairy  trance, 
To  join  her  moonshine  morrice-dance ; 
While  around  the  mystic  ring 
The  shadowy  shapes  elastic  spring, 
Then  with  a  passing  shriek  they  fly, 
Wrapt  in  mists,  along  the  sky, 
And  oft  are  by  the  shepherd  seen, 
In  his  lone  night-watch  on  the  green. 

Then,  hermit,  let  us  turn  our  feet 
To  the  low  abbey's  still  retreat, 


TO     CONTEMPLATION.  181 

Embower'd  in  the  distant  glen, 
Far  from  the  haunts  of  busy  men, 
Where,  as  we  sit  upon  the  tomb, 
The  glow-worm's  light  may  gild  the  gloom, 
And  show  to  Fancy's  saddest  eye, 
Where  some  lost  hero's  ashes  lie. 
And  oh,  as  through  the  mouldering  arch, 
With  ivy  fill'd  and  weeping  larch, 
The  night-gale  whispers  sadly  clear, 
Speaking  drear  things  to  Fancy's  ear, 
We'll  hold  communion  with  the  shade 
Of  some  deep-wailing,  ruin'd  maid — 
Or  call  the  ghost  of  Spenser  down, 
To  tell  of  wo  and  Fortune's  frown ; 
And  bid  us  cast  the  eye  of  hope 
Beyond  this  bad  world's  narrow  scope. 
Or  if  these  joys,  to  us  denied, 
To  linger  by  the  forest's  side  ; 
Or  in  the  meadow,  or  the  wood, 
Or  by  the  lone,  romantic  flood ; 
Let  us  in  the  busy  town, 
When  sleep's  dull  streams  the  people  drown, 
Far  from  drowsy  pillows  flee, 
And  turn  the  church's  massy  key ; 
Then,  as  through  the  painted  glass 
The  moon's  faint  beams  obscurely  pass ; 
And  darkly  on  the  trophied  wall, 
Her  faint,  ambiguous  shadows  fall ; 
Let  us,  while  the  faint  winds  wail, 
Through  the  long  reluctant  aisle, 
As  we  pace  with  reverence  meet, 
Count  the  echoings  of  our  feet ; 
16 


182  H    K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

While  from  the  tombs,  with  confess'd  breath, 

Distinct  responds  the  voice  of  death. 

If  thou,  mild  sage,  wilt  condescend, 

Thus  on  my  footsteps  to  attend, 

To  thee  my  lonely  lamp  shall  burn 

By  fallen  Genius'  sainted  urn 

As  o'er  the  scroll  of  Time  I  pore, 

And  sagely  spell  of  ancient  lore, 

Till  I  can  rightly  guess  of  all 

That  Plato  could  to  memory  call, 

And  scan  the  formless  views  of  things, 

Or  with  old  Egypt's  fetter'd  kings, 

Arrange  the  mystic  trains  that  shine 

In  night's  high  philosophic  mine  ; 

And  to  thy  name  shall  e'er  belong 

The  honours  of  undying  song. 


ODE 

TO    THE    GENIUS    OF    ROMANCE. 

OH  !  thou  who,  in  my  early  youth, 
When  fancy  wore  the  garb  of  truth, 
Were  wont  to  win  my  infant  feet, 
To  some  retired,  deep-fabled  seat, 
Where,  by  the  brooklet's  secret  tide, 
The  midnight  ghost  was  known  to  glide; 
Or  lay  me  in  some  lonely  glade, 
In  native  Sherwood's  forest  shade, 


THE  SAVOYARD'S  RETURN.  183 

Where  Robin  Hood,  the  outlaw  bold, 
Was  wont  his  sylvan  courts  to  hold ; 
And  there,  as  musing  deep  I  lay, 
Would  steal  my  little  soul  away, 
And  all  thy  pictures  represent, 
Of  siege  and  solemn  tournament ; 
Or  bear  me  to  the  magic  scene, 
Where,  clad  in  greaves  and  gaberdine, 
The  warrior  knight  of  chivalry 
Made  many  a  fierce  enchanter  flee ; 
And  bore  the  high-born  dame  away, 
Long  held  the  fell  magician's  prey  ; 
Or  oft  would  tell  the  shuddering  tale 
Of  murders,  and  of  goblins  pale. 
Haunting  the  guilty  baron's  side, 
(Whose  floors  with  secret  blood  were  d 
Which  o'er  the  vaulted  corridore, 
On  stormy  nights  was  heard  to  roar, 
By  old  domestic,  waken'd  wide 
By  the  angry  winds  that  chide  ; 
Or  else  the  mystic  tale  would  tell, 
Of  Greensleeve,  or  of  Blue-Beard  fell. 


THE  SAVOYARD'S   RETURN. 

1. 

OH  !  yonder  is  the  well-known  spot, 
My  dear,  my  long-lost  native  home  ! 

Oh !  welcome  is  yon  little  cot, 

Where  I  shall  rest,  no  more  to  roam  ! 


184  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Oh  !  I  have  travelled  far  and  wide, 
O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land ; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried, 
And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband. 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 


II. 

Of  distant  climes  the  false  report 
It  lured  me  from  my  native  land ; 
It  bade  me  rove — my  sole  support 
My  cymbals  and  my  saraband. 

The  woody  dell,  the  hanging  rock, 

The  chamois  skipping  o'er  the  heights; 

The  plain  adorn 'd  with  many  a  flock, 
And,  oh  !  a  thousand  more  delights, 
That  grace  yon  dear  beloved  retreat, 
Have  backward  won  my  weary  feet. 

III. 

Now  safe  return'd,  with  wandering  tired, 

No  more  my  little  home  I'll  leave  ; 
And  many  a  tale  of  what  I've  seen 

Shall  while  away  the  winter's  eve. 
Oh !  I  have  wander'd  far  and  wide, 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land  ; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried, 

And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband  ; 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail, 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 


UNFORTUNATE    GENIUS.  185 


LINES 

Written  impromptu,  on  reading  the  following  passage  in 
Mr.  Capel  LofiTs  beautiful  and  interesting  Preface  to 
Nathaniel  Bloomfield's  Poems,  just  published. — "  It  has 
a  mixture  of  the  sportive,  which  deepens  the  impression 
of  its  melancholy  close.  I  could  have  wished  as  I  have 
said  in  a  short  note,  the  conclusion  had  been  otherwise. 
The  sours  of  life  less  offend  my  taste  than  its  sweets  de- 
light it." 

Go  to  the  raging  sea,  and  say,  "Be  still !" 
Bid  the  wild  lawless  winds  obey  thy  will ; 
Preach  to  the  storm,  and  reason  with  Despair, 
But  tell  not  Misery's  son  that  life  is  fair. 

Thou,  who  in  Plenty's  lavish  lap  hast  roll'd, 
And  every  year  with  new  delight  hast  told, 
Thou,  who  recumbent  on  the  lacquer'd  barge, 
Hast  dropt  down  joy's  gay  stream  of  pleasant 

marge. 

Thou  may'st  extol  life's  calm,  untroubled  sea, 
The  storms  of  misery  never  burst  on  thee. 

Go  to  the  mat,  where  squalid  Want  reclines, 
Go  to  the  shade  obscure,  where  Merit  pines ; 
Abide  with  him  whom  Penury's  charms  control, 
And  bind  the  rising  yearnings  of  his  soul, 
Survey  his  sleepless  couch,  and  standing  there, 
Tell  the  poor  pallid  wretch  that  life  is  fair  ! 
16* 


186  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Press  thou  the  lonely  pillow  of  his  head, 
And  ask  why  sleep  his  languid  eyes  has  fled ; 
Mark  his  dew'd  temples,  and  his  half-shut  eye, 
His  trembling  nostrils,  and  his  deep-drawn  sigh, 
His  muttering  mouth  contorted  with  despair, 
And  ask  if  Genius  could  inhabit  there. 

Oh,  yes  !  that  sunken  eye  with  fire  once  gleam'd, 
And  rays  of  light  from  its  full  circlet  stream'd ; 
But  now  Neglect  has  stung  him  to  the  core, 
And  Hope's  wild  raptures  thrill  his  breast  no  more; 
Domestic  Anguish  winds  his  vitals  round, 
And  added  Grief  compels  him  to  the  ground. 
Lo  !  o'er  his  manly  form,  decay'd  and  wan, 
The  shades  of  death  with  gradual  steps  steal  on ; 
Arid  the  pale  mother,  pining  to  decay, 
Weeps  for  her  boy  her  wretched  life  away. 

Go,  child  of  Fortune  !  to  his  early  grave, 
Where  o'er  his  head  obscure  the  rank  weeds  wave ; 
Behold  the  heart-wrung  parent  lay  her  head 
On  the  cold  turf,  and  ask  to  share  his  bed. 
Go,  child  of  Fortune,  take  thy  lesson  there, 
And  tell  us  then  that  life  is  wondrous  fair  ! 

Yet,  Lofft,  in  thee,  whose  hand  is  still  stretch'd 

forth, 

T*  encourage  genius,  and  to  foster  worth ; 
On  thee,  the  unhappy's  firm,  unfailing  friend, 
JTis  just  that  every  blessing  should  descend  ; 
'Tis  just  that  life  to  thee  should  only  show 
Her  fairest  side  but  little  mix'd  with  wo. 


187 


WRITTEN 
IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

SAD  solitary  Thought,  who  keep'st  thy  vigils, 

Thy  solemn  vigils,  in  the  sick  man's  mind ; 

Communing  lonely  with  his  sinking  soul, 

And  musing  on  the  dubious  glooms  that  lie 

In  dim  obscurity  before  him, — thee, 

Wrapt  in  thy  dark  magnificence,  I  call 

At  this  still  midnight  hour,  this  awful  season, 

When  on  my  bed,  in  wakeful  restlessness, 

I  turn  me  wearisome  ;  while  all  around, 

All,  all,  save  me,  sink  in  forgetfulness ; 

I  only  wake  to  watch  the  sickly  taper 

Which  lights  me  to  my  tomb. — Yea  'tis  the  hand 

Of  death  I  feel  press  heavy  on  my  vitals, 

Slow  sapping  the  warm  current  of  existence. 

My  moments  now  are  few — the  sand  of  life 

Ebbs  fastly  to  its  finish. — Yet  a  little, 

And  the  last  fleeting  particle  will  fall, 

Silent,  unseen,  unnoticed,  unlamenled. 

Come  then,  sad  Thought,  and  let  us  meditate 

While  meditate  we  may. — We  have  now 

But  a  small  portion  of  what  men  call  time 

To  hold  communion ;  for  even  now  the  knife, 

The  separating  knife,  I  feel  divide 

The  tender  bond  that  binds  my  soul  to  earth. 

Yes,  I  must  die — I  feel  that  I  must  die ; 

And  though  to  me  has  life  been  dark  and  dreary, 

Though  Hope  for  me  has  smiled  but  to  deceive, 


188  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  Disappointment  still  pursued  her  blandish- 
ments, 

Yet  do  I  feel  my  soul  recoil  within  me 
As  I  contemplate  the  dim  gulf  of  death, 
The  shuddering  void,  the  awful  blank — futurity. 
Ay,  I  had  plann'd  full  many  a  sanguine  scheme 
Of  earthly  happiness — romantic  schemes, 
And  fraught  with  loveliness ;  and  it  is  hard 
To  feel  the  hand  of  Death  arrest  one's  steps, 
Throw  a  chill  blight  o'er  all  one's  budding  hopes, 
And  hurl  one's  soul  untimely  to  the  shades, 
Lost  in  the  gaping  gulf  of  blank  oblivion. 
Fifty  years  hence,  and  who  will  hear  of  Henry  ? 
Oh  !  none ; — another  busy  brood  of  beings 
Will  shoot  up  in  the  interim,  and  none 
Will  hold  him  in  remembrance.     I  shall  sink, 
As  sinks  a  stranger  in  the  crowded  streets 
Of  busy  London : — Some  short  bustle's  caused, 
A  few  enquiries,  and  the  crowds  close  in, 
And  all's  forgotten. — On  my  grassy  grave 
The  men  of  future  times  will  careless  tread, 
And  read  my  name  upon  the  sculptured  stone ; 
Nor  will  the  sound,  familiar  to  their  ears, 
Recall  my  vanish'd  memory. — I  did  hope 
For  better  things  ! — I  hoped  I  should  not  leave 
The  earth  without  a  vestige  ; — Fate  decrees 
It  shall  be  otherwise,  and  I  submit. 
Henceforth,  oh,  world,  no  more  of  thy  desires  ! 
No  more  of  hope  !  the  wanton  vagrant  Hope  ! 
I  abjure  all. — Now  other  cares  engross  me, 
And  my  tired  soul,  with  emulative  haste, 
Looks  to  its  God,  and  prunes  its  wings  for  Heaven. 


PASTORAL    SONG.  189 


PASTORAL  SONG. 

COME,  Anna  !  come,  the  morning  dawns, 

Faint  streaks  of  radiance  tinge  the  skies : 
Come,  let  us  seek  the  dewy  lawns, 
And  watch  the  early  lark  arise  ; 
While  Nature,  clad  in  vesture  gay, 
Hails  the  loved  return  of  day. 

Our  flocks,  that  nip  the  scanty  blade 

Upon  the  moor,  shall  seek  the  vale ; 
And  then,  secure  beneath  the  shade, 
We'll  listen  to  the  throstle's  tale  j 
And  watch  the  silver  clouds  above, 
As  o'er  the  azure  vault  they  rove. 

Come  Anna !  come,  and  bring  thy  lute, 

That  with  its  tones,  so  softly  sweet, 
In  cadence  with  my  mellow  flute, 
We  may  beguile  the  noontide  heat ; 
While  near  the  mellow  bee  shall  join, 
To  raise  a  harmony  divine. 

And  then  at  eve,  when  silence  reigns, 

Except  when  heard  the  beetle's  hum, 
We'll  leave  the  sober-tinted  plains, 

To  these  sweet  heights  again  we'll  come ; 
And  thou  to  thy  soft  lute  shall  play 
A  solemn  vesper  to  departing  day. 


190  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

VERSES. 

WHEN  pride  and  envy,  and  the  scorn 

Of  wealth,  my  heart  with  gall  embued, 
1  thought  how  pleasant  were  the  mom 

Of  silence,  in  the  solitude  ; 
To  hear  the  forest  bee  on  wing, 
Or  by  the  stream,  or  woodland  spring, 
To  lie  and  muse  alone — alone, 
While  the  tinkling  waters  moan, 
Or  such  wild  sounds  arise,  as  say, 
Man  and  noise  are  far  away. 

Now,  surely,  thought  I,  there's  enow 

To  fill  life's  dusty  way ; 
And  who  will  miss  a  poet's  feet, 

Or  wonder  where  he  stray  : 
So  to  the  woods  and  waste  I'll  go, 

And  I  will  build  an  osier  bower ; 
And  sweetly  there  to  me  shall  flow 

The  meditative  hour. 

And  when  the  Autumn's  withering  hand 
Shall  strew  with  leaves  the  sylvan  land, 
I'll  to  the  forest  caverns  hie  : 
And  in  the  dark  and  stormy  nights 
I'll  listen  to  the  shrieking  sprites, 
Who,  in  the  wintry  wolds  and  floods, 
Keep  jubilee,  and  shred  the  woods  ; 
Or,  as  it  drifted  soft  and  slow, 
Hurl  in  ten  thousand  shapes  the  snow. 


TO    MIDNIGHT.  191 


EPIGRAM 

ON 

4 
ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 

BLOOMFIELD,  thy  happy-omen'd  name 
Ensures  continuance  to  thy  fame  ; 
Both  sense  and  truth  this  verdict  give, 
While  fields  shall  bloom,  thy  name  shall  live ! 


ODE  TO  MIDNIGHT. 

SEASON  of  general  rest,  whose  solemn  still, 
Strikes  to  the  trembling  heart  a  fearful  chill, 

But  speaks  to  philosophic  souls  delight, 
Thee  do  I  hail,  as  at  my  casement  high, 
My  candle  waning  melancholy  by, 

I  sit  and  taste  the  holy  calm  of  night. 

Yon  pensive  orb,  that  through  the  ether  sails, 
And  gilds  the  misty  shadows  of  the  vales, 

Hanging  in  thy  dull  rear  her  vestal  flame, 
To  her,  while  all  around  in  sleep  recline, 
Wakeful  I  raise  my  orisons  divine, 

And  sing  the  gentle  honours  of  her  name ; 


192  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

While  Fancy  lone  o'er  me  her  votary  bends, 
To  lift  my  soul  her  fairy  visions  sends, 

And  pours  upon  my  ear  her  thrilling  song, 
And  Superstition's  gentle  terrors  come, 
See,  see  yon  dim  ghost  gliding  through  the  gloom ! 

See  round  yon  church-yard  elm  what  spectres 
throng ! 

Meanwhile  I  tune,  to  some  romantic  lay. 
My  flagelet — and,  as  I  pensive  play, 

The  sweet  notes  echo  o'er  the  mountain  scene : 
The  traveller  late  journeying  o'er  the  moors 
Hears  them  aghast, — (while  still  the  dull  owl  pours 

Her  hollow  screams  each  dreary  pause  between,) 

Till  in  the  lonely  tower  he  spies  the  light 
Now  faintly  flashing  on  the  glooms  of  night, 

Where  I,  poor  muser,  my  lone  vigils  keep, 
And,  'mid  the  dreary  solitude  serene, 
Cast  a  much-meaning  glance  upon  the  scene, 

And  raise  my  mournful  eye  to  Heaven,  and  weep. 


ODE  TO   THOUGHT. 

WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

I. 
HENCE  away,  vindictive  Thought ! 

Thy  pictures  are  of  pain ; 
The  visions  through  thy  dark  eye  caught, 
They  with  no  gentle  charms  are  fraught, 


TO    THOUGHT.  193 

So  pr'ythee  back  again. 
I  would  not  weep, 
I  wish  to  sleep, 
Then  why,  thou  busy  foe,  with  me  thy  vigils  keep  ? 

II. 

Why  dost  o'er  bed  and  couch  recline  ? 

Is  this  thy  new  delight  ? 
Pale  visitant,  it  As  not  thine 
To  keep  thy  sentry  through  the  mine, 
The  dark  vault  of  the  night : 
'Tis  thine  to  die, 
While  o'er  the  eye 

The  dews  of  slumber  press,  and  waking  sorrows 
fly. 

III. 

Go  thou,  and  bide  with  him  who  guides 

His  bark  through  lonely  seas ; 
And  as  reclining  on  his  helm, 
Sadly  he  marks  the  starry  realm, 
To  him  thou  may'st  bring  ease ; 
But  thou  to  me 
Art  misery, 

So  pr'ythee,  pr'ythee,  plume  thy  wings,  and  from 
my  pillow  flee. 

IV. 

And,  Memory,  pray  what  art  thou  ? 

Art  thou  of  pleasure  born  ? 
Does  bliss  untainted  from  thee  flow  ? 
The  rose  that  gems  thy  pensive  brow, 
17 


194  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Is  it  without  a  thorn  ? 
With  all  thy  smiles, 
And  witching  wiles, 

Yet  not  unfrequent  bitterness  thy  mournful  sway 
denies. 

V. 

The  drowsy  night-watch  has  forgot 

To  call  the  solemn  hour ; 
Lull'd  by  the  winds  he  slumbers  deep, 
While  I  in  vain,  capricious  Sleep, 
Invoke  thy  tardy  power ; 
And  restless  lie, 
With  unclosed  eye, 

And  count  the  tedious  hours  as  slow  they  minute 
by. 


GENIUS. 

AN  ODE. 

I.  1. 

MANY  there  be,  who,  through  the  vale  of  life, 

With  velvet  pace,  unnoticed,  softly  go, 
While  jarring  Discord's  inharmonious  strife 

Awakes  them  not  to  wo. 
By  them  unheeded,  carking  Care, 
Green-eyed  Grief  and  dull  Despair ; 


GENIUS.  195 

Smoothly  they  pursue  their  way, 

With  even  tenor  and  with  equal  breath, 

Alike  through  cloudy  and  through  sunny  day, 
Then  sink  in  peace  to  death. 

II.  1. 
But,  ah !  a  few  there  be  whom  griefs  devour 

And  weeping  Wo,  and  Disappointment  keen, 
Repining  Penury,  and  Sorrow  sour, 

And  self-consuming  Spleen. 
And  these  are  Genius'  favourites :  these 
Know  the  thought-throned  mind  to  please, 
And  from  her  fleshy  seat  to  draw 

To  realms  where  Fancy's  golden  orbits  roll, 
Disdaining  all  but  'wildering  Rapture's  law, 
The  captivated  soul. 

III.  1. 

Genius,  from  thy  starry  throne, 

High  above  the  burning  zone, 
In  radiant  robe  of  light  array'd, 
Oh  !  hear  the  plaint  by  thy  sad  favourite  made, 

His  melancholy  moan. 
He  tells  of  scorn,  he  tells  of  broken  vows, 

Of  sleepless  nights  of  anguish-ridden  days, 
Pangs  that  his  sensibility  uprouse 

To  curse  his  being  and  his  thirst  for  praise. 
Thou  gav'st  to  him  with  treble  force  to  feel 

The  sting  of  keen  neglect,  the  rich  man's 

scorn ; 

And  what  o'er  all  does  in  his  soul  preside 
Predominant,  and  tempers  him  to  steel, 
His  high  indignant  pride. 


196  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

1.2. 

Lament  not  ye,  who  humbly  steal  through  life, 

That  Genius  visits  not  your  lowly  shed ; 
For,  ah,  what  woes  and  sorrows  ever  rife 

Distract  his  hapless  head  ! 
For  him  awaits  no  balmy  sleep, 
He  wakes  all  night,  and  wakes  to  weep ; 
Or  by  his  lonely  lamp  he  sits 

At  solemn  midnight  when  the  peasant  sleeps, 
In  feverish  study,  and  in  moody  fits 
His  mournful  vigils  keeps. 

II.  2. 

And,  oh !  for  what  consumes  his  watchful  oil  ? 
For  what  does  thus  he  waste  life's  fleeting 

breath  ? 
'Tis  for  neglect  and  penury  he  doth  toil, 

'Tis  for  untimely  death. 
Lo  !  where  dejected  pale  he  lies, 
Despair  depicted  in  his  eyes, 
He  feels  the  vital  flame  decrease, 

He  sees  the  grave  wide-yawning  for  its  prey, 
Without  a  friend  to  soothe  his  soul  to  peace, 
And  cheer  the  expiring  ray. 

III.  2. 

By  Sulmo's  bard  of  mournful  fame, 
By  gentle  Ot way's  magic  name, 
By  him,  the  youth,  who  smiled  at  death, 
And  rashly  dared  to  stop  his  vital  breath, 


GENIUS.  197 

Will  I  thy  pangs  proclaim ; 
For  still  to  misery  closely  thou'rt  allied, 
Though  gaudy  pageants  glitter  by  thy  side, 

And  far-resounding  Fame. 
What  though  to  thee  the  dazzled  millions  bow, 
And  to  thy  posthumous  merit  bend  them  low  ; 
Though  unto  thee  the  monarch  looks  with  awe, 
And  thou  at  thy  flash'd  car  dost  nations  draw, 
Yet,  ah  !  unseen  behind  thee  fly 

Corroding  Anguish,  soul-subduing  Pain, 
And  Discontent  that  clouds  the  fairest  sky  : 

A  melancholy  train. 

Yes,  Genius,  thee  a  thousand  cares  await. 
Mocking  thy  derided  state  ; 
Thee  chill  Adversity  will  still  attend, 
Before  whose  face  flies  fast  the  summer's  friend, 

And  leaves  thee  all  forlorn ; 
While   leaden  Ignorance    rears  her  head  and 

laughs, 

And  fat  Stupidity  shakes  his  jolly  sides, 
And  while  the  cup  of  affluence  he  quaffs 

With  bee-eyed  Wisdom,  Genius  derides, 
Who  toils,  and  every  hardship  doth  outbrave, 
To  gain  the  meed  of  praise,  when  he  is  moulder- 
ing in  his  grave. 


17 


198  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ODE  TO  THE 
MOON. 


MILD  orb,  who  floatest  through  the  realm  of  night, 

A  pathless  wanderer  o'er  a  lonely  wild, 
Welcome  to  me  thy  soft  and  pensive  light, 

Which  oft  in  childhood  my  lone  thoughts  be- 
guiled. 

Now  doubly  dear  as  o'er  my  silent  seat, 
Nocturnal  Study's  still  retreat, 
It  casts  a  mournful  melancholy  gleam, 
And  through  my  lofty  casement  weaves, 
Dim  through  the  vine's  encircling  leaves, 
An  intermingled  beam. 

II. 

These  feverish  dews  that  on  my  temples  hang, 

This  quivering  lip,  these  eyes  of  dying  flame  : 
These  the  dread  signs  of  many  a  secret  pang, 

These  are  the  meed  of  him  who  pants  for  fame  ! 
Pale  Moon,  from  thoughts  like  these  divert  my 

soul; 

Lowly  I  kneel  before  thy  shrine  on  high ; 
My  lamp  expires  ; — beneath  thy  mild  control, 
;      These  restless  dreams  are  ever  wont  to  fly. 

Come,  kindred  mourner,  in  my  breast 
Soothe  these  discordant  tones  to  rest, 


TO   THE    MOON.  199 

And  breathe  the  soul  of  peace ; 
Mild  visitor,  I  feel  thee  here, 
It  is  not  pain  that  brings  this  tear, 

For  thou  hast  bid  it  cease. 

Oh !  many  a  year  has  pass'd  away 
Since  I,  beneath  thy  fairy  ray 
Attun'd  my  infant  reed. 
When  wilt  thou,  Time,  those  days  restore, 
Those  happy  moments  now  no  more — 


When  on  the  lake's  damp  marge  I  lay, 

And  mark'd  the  northern  meteor's  dance, 
Bland  Hope  and  Fancy,  ye  were  there 
To  inspirate  my  trance. 

Twin  sisters,  faintly  now  ye  deign 
Your  magic  sweets  on  me  to  shed, 
In  vain  your  powers  are  now  essay'd 
To  chase  superior  pain. 

And  art  thou  fled,  thou  welcome  orb  ? 

So  swiftly  pleasure  flies  ; 
So  to  mankind,  in  darkness  lost, 

The  beam  of  ardour  dies. 
Wan  Moon,  thy  nightly  task  is  done, 
And  now,  encurtain'd  in  the  main, 

Thou  sinkest  into  rest ; 
But  I,  in  vain,  on  thorny  bed 

Shall  woo  the  god  of  soft  repose — 


200  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


FRAGMENT. 

LOUD  rage  the  winds  without. — The  wintry  cloud 
O'er  the  cold  north  star  casts  her  flitting  shroud ; 
And  Silence,  pausing  in  some  snow-clad  dale, 
Starts  as  she  hears,  by  fits,  the  shrieking  gale  ; 
Where  now,  shut  out  from  every  still  retreat, 
Her  pine-clad  summit,  and  her  woodland  seat, 
Shall  Meditation,  in  her  saddest  mood, 
Retire  o'er  all  her  pensive  stores  to  brood  ? 
Shivering  and  blue  the  peasant  eyes  askance 
The  drifted  fleeces  that  around  him  dance, 
And  hurries  on  his  half-averted  form, 
Stemming  the  fury  of  the  sidelong  storm. 
Him  soon  shall  greet  his  snow-topt  [cot  of  thatch,] 
Soon  shall  his  'numb'd  hand  tremble  on  the  latch, 
Soon  from  his  chimney's  nook  the  cheerful  flame 
Diffuse  a  genial  warmth  throughout  his  frame ; 
Round  the  light  fire,  while  roars  the  north  wind 

loud, 

What  merry  groups  of  vacant  faces  crowd ; 
These  hail  his  coming — these  his  meal  prepare, 
And  boast  in  all  that  cot  no  lurking  care. 

What,  though  the  social  circle  be  denied, 
Even  Sadness  brightens  at  her  own  fire-side, 
Loves,  with  fixed  eye, to  watch  the  fluttering  blaze, 
While  musing  Memory  dwells  on  former  days ; 
Or  Hope, bless'd  spirit!  smiles — and  still  forgiven, 
Forgets  the  passport,  while  she  points  to  Heaven. 


FRAGMENT.  201 

Then  heap  the  fire — shut  out  the  biting  air, 
And  from  its  station  wheel  the  easy  chair : 
Thus  fenced  and  warm,  in  silent  fit,  'tis  sweet 
To  hear  without  the  bitter  tempest  beat 
All,  all  alone — to  sit,  and  muse,  and  sigh, 
The  pensive  tenant  of  obscurity. 


FRAGMENT. 

OH  !  thou  most  fatal  of  Pandora's  train, 

Consumption !  silent  cheater  of  the  eye ; 
Thou  com'st  not  robed  in  agonizing  pain, 

Nor  mark'st  thy  course  with  Death's  delusive 
dye, 

But  silent  and  unnoticed  thou  dost  lie ; 
O'er  life's  soft  springs  thy  venom  dost  diffuse, 

And,  while  thou  giv'st  new  lustre  to  the  eye,  • 
While  o'er  the  cheek  are  spread  health's  ruddy 

hues, 
Even  then  life's  little  rest  thy  cruel  power  subdues. 

Oft  I've  beheld  thee,  in  the  glow  of  youth 

Hid   'neath    the    blushing   roses  which  there 
bloom'd, 

And  dropp'd  a  tear,  for  then  thy  cankering  tooth 
I  knew  would  never  stay,  till  all  consumed, 
In  the  cold  vault  of  death  he  were  entomb'd. 

But  oh !  what  sorrow  did  I  feel,  as  swift, 
Insidious  ravager,  I  saw  thee  fly 


202  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Through  fair  Lucina's  breast  of  whitest  snow, 
Preparing  swift  her  passage  to  the  sky. 

Though  still  intelligence  beam'd  in  the  glance, 
The  liquid  lustre  of  her  fine  blue  eye  ; 

Yet  soon  did  languid  listlessness  advance, 

And  soon  she  calmly  sunk  in  death's  repugnant 
trance. 

Even  when  her  end  was  swiftly  drawing  near 
And  dissolution  hover'd  o'er  her  head  : 

Even  then  so  beauteous  did  her  form  appear 
That  none  who  saw  her  but  admiring  said, 
Sure  so  much  beauty  never  could  be  dead. 

Yet  the  dark  lash  of  her  expressive  eye, 

Bent  lowly  down  upon  the  languid 


SONNETS. 


TO  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ. 

LOFFT,  unto  thee  one  tributary  song 

The  simple  Muse,  admiring,  fain  would  bring ; 
She  longs  to  lisp  thee  to  the  listening  throng, 

A.nd  with  thy  name  to  bid  the  woodlands  ring. 


SONNETS.  203 

Fain  would  she  blazon  all  thy  virtues  forth, 
Thy  warm  philanthropy,  thy  justice  mild, 

Would  say  how  thou  didst  foster  kindred  worth, 
And  to  thy  bosom  snatch'd  Misfortune's  child  ; 

Firm  she  would  paint  thee,  with  becoming  zeal, 
Upright,  and  learned,  as  the  Pyliari  sire, 
Would  say  how  sweetly  thou  couldst  sweep  the 
lyre, 

And  show  thy  labours  for  the  public  weal. 
Ten  thousand  virtues  tell  with  joys  supreme, 
But  ah  !  she  shrinks  abash'd  before  the  arduous 
theme. 


TO  THE  MOON. 

WRITTEN    IN    NOVEMBER. 

SUBLIME,  emerging  from  the  misty  verge 
Of  the  horizon  dim,  thee,  Moon,  I  hail, 
As  sweeping  o'er  the  leafless  grove  the  gale 

Seems  to  repeat  the  year's  funeral  dirge. 

Now  Autumn  sickens  on  the  languid  sight, 

And  leaves  bestrew  the  wanderer's  lonely  way, 

Now  unto  thee,  pale  arbitress  of  night, 
With  double  joy  my  homage  do  I  pay. 
When  clouds  disguise  the  glories  of  the  day, 

And  stern  November  sheds  her  boisterous  blight, 
How  doubly  sweet  to  mark  the  moony  ray 

Shoot  through  the  mist  from  the  ethereal  height, 
And,  still  unchanged,  back  to  the  memory  bring 
The  smiles  Favonian  of  life's  earliest  spring. 


204  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

i 

LINES 

WRITTEN    AT    THE    GRAVE    OF    A    ERIEND. 

FAST  from  the  West  the  fading  day-streaks  fly, 

And  ebon  Night  assumes  her  solemn  sway, 
Yet  here  alone,  unheeding  time,  I  lie, 

And  o'er  my  friend  still  pour  the  plaintive  lay. 
Oh  !  'tis  not  long  since,  George,  with  thee  I  woo'd 

The  maid  of  musings  by  yon  moaning  wave, 
And  hail'd  the  moon's  mild  beam,  which  now  re- 
new'd, 

Seems  sweetly  sleeping  on  thy  silent  grave  ! 
The  busy  world  pursues  its  boisterous  way 

The  noise  of  revelry  still  echoes  round, 
Yet  I  am  sad  while  all  beside  is  gay ; 

Yet  still  I  weep  o'er  thy  deserted  mound. 
Oh !  that,  like  thee,  I  might  bid  sorrow  cease, 
And  'neath  the  green-sward  sleep  the  sleep  of  peace. 


TO  MISFORTUNE. 

MISFORTUNE,  I  am  young,  my  chin  is  bare,  [told, 
And  I  have  wonder'd  much  when  men  have 

How  youth  was  free  from  sorrow  and  from  care, 
That  thou  shouldst  dwell  with  me  ^vid  leave  the 
old. 


SONNETS.  205 

Sure  dost  not  like  me  ! — Shrivell'd  hag  of  hate, 
My  phiz,  and  thanks  to  thee,  is  sadly  long ; 
I  am  not  either,  Beldam,  over  strong ; 
Nor  do  I  wish  at  all  to  be  thy  mate, 
For  thou,  sweet  Fury,  art  my  utter  hate. 
Nay,  shake  not  thus  thy  miserable  pate, 
I  am  yet  young,  and  do  not  like  thy  face  ; 
And,  lest  thou  should'st  resume  the  wild-goose 

chase, 

I'll  tell  thee  something  all  thy  heat  to  assuage, 
— Thou  wilt  not  hit  my  fancy  in  my  age. 


As  thus  oppress'd  with  many  a  heavy  care, 
(Though  young  yet  sorrowful,)  I  turn  my  feet 
To  the  dark  woodland,  longing  much  to  greet 
The  form  of  Peace,  if  chance  she  sojourn  there ; 
Deep  thought  and  dismal,  verging  to  despair, 
Fills  my  sad  breast ;  and,  tired  with  this  vain 

coil, 

I  shrink  dismay'd  before  life's  upland  toil. 
And  as  amid  the  leaves  the  evening  air 
Whispers  still  melody, — I  think  ere  long, 

When  I  no  more  can  hear,  these  woods  will 

speak ; 

And  then  a  sad  smile  plays  upon  my  cheek, 
And  mournful  phantasies  upon  me  throng, 
And  I  do  ponder  with  most  strange  delight, 
On  the  calm  slumbers  of  the  dead  man's  night. 


IS 


206  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


TO  APRIL. 

EMBLEM  of  life  !  see  changeful  April  sail 
In  varying  vest  along  the  shadowy  skies, 
Now  bidding  Summer's  softest  zephyrs  rise, 
Anon,  recalling  Winter's  stormy  gale, 
And  pouring  from  the  cloud  her  sudden  hail ; 
Then,  smiling  through  the  tear  that  dims  her 

eyes, 

While  Iris  with  her  braid  the  welkin  dyes, 
Promise  of  sunshine,  not  so  prone  to  fail. 
So,  to  us,  sojourners  in  Life's  low  vale, 
The  smiles  of  Fortune  flatter  to  deceive, 
While  still  the  Fates  the  web  of  Misery  weave ; 
So  Hope  exultant  spreads  her  aery  sail, 
And  from  the  present  gloom  the  soul  conveys 
To  distant  summers  and  far  happier  days. 


YE  unseen  spirits,  whose  wild  melodies, 
At  even  rising  slow,  yet  sweetly  clear, 
Steal  on  the  musing  poet's  pensive  ear, 

As  by  the  wood-spring  stretch'd  supine  he  lies, 
When  he  who  now  invokes  you  low  is  laid, 

His  tired  frame  resting  on  the  earth's  cold  bed, 

Hold  ye  your  nightly  visions  o'er  his  head, 
And  chant  a  dirge  to  his  reposing  shade  ! 

For  he  was  wont  to  love  your  madrigals ; 


SONNETS.  207 

And  often  by  the  haunted  stream  that  laves 
The  dark  sequester'd  woodland's  inmost  caves, 
Would  sit  and  listen  to  the  dying  falls, 
Till  the  full  tear  would  quiver  in  his  eye, 
And  his  big  heart  would  heave  with  mournful 
ecstacy. 


TO  A  TAPER. 

'Tis  midnight — On  the  globe  dead  slumber  sits, 

And  all  is  silence — in  the  hour  of  sleep  ; 
Save  when  the  hollow  gust,  that  swells  by  fits, 

In  the  dark  wood  roars  fearfully  and  deep. 
I  wake  alone  to  listen  and  to  weep, 

To  watch,  my  taper,  thy  pale  beacon  burn ; 
And,  as  still  Memory  does  her  vigils  keep, 

To  think  of  days  that  never  can  return. 
By  thy  pale  ray  I  raise  my  languid  head, 

My  eye  surveys  the  solitary  gloom ; 
And  the  sad  meaning  tear,  unmix'd  with  dread, 

Tells  thou  dost  light  me  to  the  silent  tomb. 
Like  thee  I  wane ; — like  thine  my  life's  last  ray 
Will  fade  in  loneliness,  unwept,  away. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

AND  canst  thou,  Mother,  for  a  moment  think, 
That  we,  thy  children,  when  old  age  shall  shed 
Its  blanching  honours  on  thy  weary  head, 


208  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Could  from  our  best  of  duties  ever  shrink  ? 
Sooner  the  sun  from  his  high  sphere  should  sink 

Than  we,  ungrateful,  leave  thee  in  that  day, 

To  pine  in  solitude  thy  life  away, 
Or  shun  thee,  tottering  on  the  grave's  cold  brink. 
Banish  the  thought ! — where  'er  our  steps  may  roam, 

O'er  smiling  plains,  or  wastes  without  a  tree, 

Still  will  fond  memory  point  our  hearts  to  thee, 
And  paint  the  pleasures  of  thy  peaceful  home ; 
While  duty  bids  us  all  thy  griefs  assuage, 
And  smooth  the  pillow  of  thy  sinking  age. 


YES,  'twill  be  over  soon. — This  sickly  dream 

Of  life  will  vanish  from  my  feverish  brain ; 
And  death  my  wearied  spirit  will  redeem 

From  this  wild  region  of  unvaried  pain. 
Yon  brook  will  glide  as  softly  as  before, — 

Yon   landscape    smile, — yon    golden    harvest 

grow,— 
Yon  sprightly  lark  on  mounting  wing  will  soar 

When  Henry's  name  is  heard  no  more  below. 
I  sigh  when  all  rny  youthful  friends  caress, 

They  laugh  in  health,  and  future  evils  brave ; 
Them  shall  a  wife  and  smiling  children  bless, 

While  I  am  mouldering  in  my  silent  grave. 
God  of  the  just — Thou  gavest  the  bitter  cup  ; 
I  bow  to  thy  behest,  and  drink  it  up. 


SONNETS.  209 


TO  CONSUMPTION. 

GENTLY,  most  gently,  on  thy  victim's  head, 
Consumption,  lay  thine  hand ! — let  me  decay, 
Like  the  expiring  lamp,  unseen,  away. 

And  softly  go  to  slumber  with  the  dead. 

And  if  'tis  true,  what  holy  men  have  said, 
That  strains  angelic  oft  foretell  the  day 
Of  death,  to  those  good  men  who  fall  thy  prey, 

0  let  the  aerial  music  round  my  bed, 

Dissolving  sad  in  dying  symphony, 

Whisper  the  solemn  warning  in  mine  ear : 

That  I  may  bid  my  weeping  friends  good-by 
Ere  I  depart  upon  my  journey  drear : 

And,  smiling  faintly  on  the  painful  past, 

Compose  my  decent  head,  and  breathe  my  last. 


TRANSLATED 

FROM    THE    FRENCH    OF    M.    DESBARREAUX. 

THY  judgments,  Lord,  are  just ;  thou  lov'st  to  wear 

The  face  of  pity  and  of  love  divine ; 
But  mine  is  guilt — thou  must  not,  canst  not  spare, 

While  Heaven  is  true,  and  equity  is  thine. 
Yes,  oh  my  God  ! — such  crimes  as  mine,  so  dread, 

Leave  but  the  choice  of  punishment  to  thee ; 
Thy  interest  calls  for  judgment  on  my  head, 

And  even  thy  mercy  dares  not  plead  for  me  ! 
18* 


210  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Thy  will  be  done — since  'tis  thy  glory's  due, 
Did  from  mine  eyes  the  endless  torrents  flow  ; 

Smite — it  is  time — though  endless  death  ensue, 
I  bless  the  avenging  hand  that  lays  me  low. 

But  on  what  spot  shall  fall  thine  anger's  flood, 

That  has  not  first  been  drench'd  in  Christ's  atoning 
blood? 


HYMN. 

The  Lord  our  God  is  clothed  with  might, 

The  winds  obey  his  will ; 
He  speaks,  and  in  his  heavenly  height, 

The  rolling  sun  stands  still. 

Rebel,  ye  waves — and  o'er  the  land 

With  threatening  aspect  roar  ! 
The  Lord  uplifts  his  awful  hand, 

And  chains  you  to  the  shore. 

Howl,  winds  of  night !  your  force  combine  ! 

Without  his  high  behest, 
Ye  shall  not,  in  the  mountain  pine, 

Disturb  the  sparrow's  nest. 

His  voice  sublime  is  heard  afar, 

In  distant  peals  it  dies ; 
He  yokes  the  whirlwinds  to  his  car, 

And  sweeps  the  howling  skies. 

Ye  nations,  bend — in  reverence  bend ; 

Ye  monarchs,  wait  his  nod, 
And  bid  the  choral  song  ascend 

To  celebrate  our  God. 


211 


HYMN. 

THE  Lord  our  God  is  Lord  of  all, 

His  station  who  can  find  ? 
I  hear  him  in  the  waterfall ! 

I  hear  him  in  the  wind ! 

If  in  the  gloom  of  night  I  shroud, 

His  face  I  cannot  fly ; 
I  see  him  in  the  evening  cloud, 

And  in  the  morning  sky. 

He  lives,  he  reigns  in  every  land, 
From  winter's  polar  snows 

To  where,  across  the  burning  sand, 
The  blasting  meteor  glows ! 

He  smiles,  we  live ;  he  frowns,  we  die 
We  hang  upon  his  word : — 

He  rears  his  red  right  arm  on  high, 
And  ruin  bares  the  sword. 

He  bids  his  blasts  the  fields  deform — 
Then  when  his  thunders  cease, 

Sits  like  an  angel  'mid  the  storm, 
And  smiles  the  winds  to  peace  ! 


212  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


HYMN. 

THROUGH  sorrow's  night,  and  danger's  p? 

Amid  the  deepening  gloom, 
We,  soldiers  of  an  injured  King, 

Are  marching  to  the  tomb. 

There,  when  the  turmoil  is  no  more, 

And  all  our  powers  decay, 
Our  cold  remains  in  solitude 

Shall  sleep  the  years  away. 

Our  labors  done,  securely  laid 

In  this  our  last  retreat, 
Unheeded,  o'er  our  silent  dust 

The  storms  of  life  shall  beat. 

Yet  not  thus  lifeless,  thus  inane, 

The  vital  spark  shall  lie, 
For  o'er  life's  wreck  that  spark  shall  rise 

To  see  its  kindred  sky. 

These  ashes  too,  this  little  dust, 
Our  Father's  care  shall  keep, 

Till  the  last  angel  rise,  and  break 
The  long  and  dreary  sleep. 

Then  love's  soft  dew  o'er  every  eye 

Shall  shed  its  mildest  rays, 
And  the  long  silent  dust  shall  burst 

With  shouts  of  endless  praise. 


213 


HYMN. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

MUCH  in  sorrow,  oft  in  woe, 
Onward,  Christians,  onward  go, 
Fight  the  fight,  and  worn  with  strife, 
Steep  with  tears  the  bread  of  life. 

Onward,  Christians,  onward  go, 
Join  the  war,  and  face  the  foe ; 
Faint  not !  much  doth  yet  remain, 
Dreary  is  the  long  campaign. 

Shrink  not,  Christians;  will  ye  yield? 
Will  ye  quit  the  painful  field  ? 


HYMN. 

CHRISTIANS  !  brethren  !  ere  we  part, 
Join  every  voice  and  every  heart; 
One  solemn  hymn  to  God  we  raise, 
One  final  song  of  grateful  praise. 

Christians !  we  here  may  meet  no  more, 
But  there  is  yet  a  happier  shore  ; 
And  there,  released  from  toil  and  pain, 
Brethren,  we  shall  meet  again. 


214  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Now  to  God,  the  Three  in  One, 
Be  eternal  glory  done ; 
Raise,  ye  saints,  the  sound  again: 
Ye  nations,  join  the  loud  Amen. 


SONNET. 

POOR  little  one  !  most  bitterly  did  pain, 
And  life's  worst  ills,  assail  thine  early  age; 
And,  quickly  tired  with  this  rough  pilgrimage, 
Thy  wearied  spirit  did  its  heaven  regain. 
Moaning,  and  sickly,  on  the  lap  of  life 
Thou  laid'st  thine  aching  head,  and  thou  didst  sigh 
A  little  while,  ere  to  its  kindred  sky 
Thy  soul  return'd,  to  taste  no  more  of  strife ! 
Thy  lot  was  happy,  little  sojourner  ! 
Thou  hadst  no  mother  to  direct  thy  ways ; 
And  fortune  frown'd  most  darkly  on  thy  days, 
Short  as  they  were.     Now,  far  from  the  low  stir 
Of  this  dim  spot,  in  heaven  thou  dost  repose, 
And  look'st  and  smilest  on  this  world's  transient 
woes. 


TO  A   FRIEND  IN  DISTRESS, 

Who,  when  Henry  reasoned  with  him  calmly,  asked, 
"  If  he  did  not  feel  for  him  ?" 

«  Do  I  not  feel?"     The  doubt  is  keen  as  steel. 

Yea,  I  do  feel — most  exquisitely  feel ; 

My  heart  can  weep,  when  from  my  downcast  eye 

I  chase  the  tear,  and  stem  the  rising  sigh  : 

Deep  buried  there  I  close  the  rankling  dart, 

And  smile  the  most  when  heaviest  is  my  heart. 

On  this  I  act — whatever  pangs  surround, 

'Tis  magnanimity  to  hide  the  wound  ! 

When  all  was  new,  and  life  was  in  its  spring, 

I  lived  an  unloved  solitary  thing  ; 

Even  then  I  learn'd  to  bury  deep  from  day, 

The  piercing  cares  that  wore  my  youth  away : 

Even  then  I  learn'd  for  others'  cares  to  feel ; 

Even  then  I  wept  I  had  not  power  to  heal : 

Even   then,  deep-sounding  through   the  mighty 

gloom, 
I  heard  the  wretched's  groan,  and  mourn'd  the 

wretched's  doom,  [fire — 

Who  were  my  friends  in  youth  ? — The  midnight 
The  silent  moon-beam,  or  the  starry  choir ; 
To  these  I  'plained,  or  turn'd  from  outer  sight, 
To  bless  my  lonely  taper's  friendly  light ; 

215 


216  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

I  never  yet  could  ask,  howe'er  forlorn, 

For  vulgar  pity  mix'd  with  vulgar  scorn  ; 

The  sacred  source  of  wo  I  never  ope, 

My  breast's  my  coffer,  and  my  God's  my  hope. 

But  that  I  do  feel,  Time,  my  friend,  will  show, 

Though  the  cold  crowd  the  secret  never  know  ; 

With  them  I  laugh — yet,  when  no  eye  can  see, 

I  weep  for  nature,  and  I  weep  for  thee. 

Yes,  thou  didst  wrong  me,  *  *  *  ;  I  fondly  thought 

In  thee  I'd  found  the  friend  my  heart  had  sought ! 

I  fondly  thought,  that  thou  couldst  pierce  the  guise, 

And  read  the  truth  that  in  my  bosom  lies  ; 

I  fondly  thought  ere  Time's  last  days  were  gone, 

Thy  heart  and  mine  had  mingled  into  one  ! 

Yes — and  they  yet  will  mingle.     Days  and  years 

Will  fly,  and  leave  us  partners  in  our  tears : 

We  then  shall  feel  that  friendship  has  a  power 

To  soothe  affliction  in  her  darkest  hour ; 

Time's  trial  o'er,  shall  clasp  each  other's  hand, 

And  wait  the  passport  to  a  better  land. 

Thine, 

H.  K.  WHITE. 
Half  past  Eleven  o 'Clock  at  Night. 


CHRISTMAS-DAY.  ? 

Yet  once  more,  and  once  more,  awake  my  Harp, 
From  silence  and  neglect — one  lofty  strain, 
Lofty,  yet  wilder  than  the  winds  of  Heaven, 
And  seeking  mysteries  more  than  words  can  tell, 


CHRISTMAS-DAY.  217 

I  ask  of  thee,  for  I,  with  hymnings  high, 

Would  join  the  dirge  of  the  departing  year. 

Yet  with  no  wintry  garland  from  the  woods, 

Wrought  of  the  leafless  branch,  or  ivy  sear, 

Wreathe  I  thy  tresses,  dark  December  !  now ; 

Me  higher  quarrel  calls,  with  loudest  song, 

And  fearful  joy,  to  celebrate  the  day 

Of  the  Redeemer. — Near  two  thousand  suns 

Have  set  their  seals  upon  the  rolling  lapse 

Of  generations,  since  the  day-spring  first 

Beamed  from  on  high  ! — Now  to  the  mighty  mass 

Of  that  increasing  aggregate  we  add 

One  unit  more.     Space,  in  comparison, 

How  small,  yet  mark'd  with  how  much  misery ; 

Wars,  famines,  and  the  fury,  Pestilence, 

Over  the  nations  hanging  her  dread  scourge  ; 

The  oppress'd  too,  in  silent  bitterness, 

Weeping  their  sufferance  ;  and  the  arm  of  wrong, 

Forcing  the  scanty  portion  from  the  weak, 

And  steeping  the  lone  widow's  couch  with  tears. 

So  has  the  year  been  character'd  with  wo 

In  Christian  land,  and  mark'd  with  wrongs  and 

crimes ; 

Yet  'twas  not  thus  He  taught — not  thus  He  lived, 
Whose  birth  we  this  day  celebrate  with  prayer 
And  much  thanksgiving. — He,  a  man  of  woes, 
Went'  on  the  way  appointed, — path,  though  rude, 
Yet  borne  with  patience  still : — He  came  to  cheer 
The  broken-hearted,  to  raise  up  the  sick, 
And  on  the  wandering  and  benighted  mind 


19 


218  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

To  pour  the  light  of  truth. — 0  task  divine  ! 
0  more  than  angel  teacher !  He  had  words 
To  soothe  the  barking  waves,  and  hush  the  winds ; 
And  when  the  soul  was  toss'd  in  troubled  seas, 
Wrapp'd  in  thick  darkness  and  the  howling  storm, 
He,  pointing  to  the  star  of  peace  on  high, 
Arm'd  it  with  holy  fortitude,  and  bade  it  smile 

At  the  surrounding  wreck. 

When  with  deep  agony  his  heart  was  rack'd, 
Not  for  himself  the  tear-drop  dew'd  his  cheek, 
For  them  He  wept,  for  them  to  Heaven  He  pray'd, 
His  persecutors — "  Father,  pardon  them, 
They  know  not  what  they  do." 

Angels  of  Heaven, 

Ye  who  beheld  Him  fainting  on  the  cross, 
And  did  him  homage,  say,  may  mortal  join 
The  hallelujahs  of  the  risen  God  ? 
Will  the  faint  voice  and  grovelling  song  be  heard 
Amid  the  seraphim  in  light  divine  ? 
Yes,  He  will  deign,  the  Prince  of  Peace  will  deign, 
For  mercy,  to  accept  the  hymn  of  faith, 
Low  though  it  be  and  humble. — Lord  of  life, 
The  Christ,  the  Comforter,  thine  advent  now 
Fills  my  uprising  soul. — I  mount,  I  fly 
Far  o'er  the  skies,  beyond  the  rolling  orbs  ; 
The  bonds  of  flesh  dissolve,  and  earth  recedes, 
And  care,  and  pain,  and  sorrow  are  no  more. 


Dec  25th,  1804. 


NELSONI   MORS.  219 


NELSONI  MORS. 

YET  once  again,  my  Harp,  yet  once  again, 

One  ditty  more,  and  on  the  mountain  ash 

I  will  again  suspend  thee.     I  have  felt 

The  warm  tear  frequent  on  my  cheek,  since  last, 

At  eventide,  when  all  the  winds  were  hush'd, 

I  woke  to  thee  the  melancholy  song. 

Since  then  with  Thoughtfulness,  a  maid  severe, 

I've  journey'd,  and  have  learn'd  to  shape  the  freaks 

Of  frolic  fancy  to  the  line  of  truth  ; 

Not  unrepining,  for  my  frowar.d  heart, 

Still  turns  to  thee,  mine  Harp,  and  to  the  flow 

Of  spring-gales  past — the  woods  and  storied  haunts 

Of  my  not  songless  boyhood. — Yet  once  more, 

Not  fearless,  I  will  wake  thy  tremulous  tones, 

My  long  neglected  Harp. — He  must  not  sink ; 

The  good,  the  brave — he  must  not,  shall  not  sink 

Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Though  from  the  Muse's  chalice  I  may  pour 

No  precious  dews  of  Aganippe's  well, 

Or  Castaly, — though  from  the  morning  cloud 

I  fetch  no  hues  to  scatter  on  his  hearse : 

Yet  will  I  wreathe  a  garland  for  his  brows, 

Of  simple  flowers,  such  as  the  hedge-rows  scent 

Of  Britain,  my  loved  country ;  and  with  tears 

Most  eloquent,  yet  silent,  I  will  bathe 


220  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Thy  honour'd  corse,  my  Nelson,  tears  as  warm 
And  honest  as  the  ebbing  blood  that  flow'd 
Fast  from  thy  honest  heart. — Thou,  Pity,  too, 
If  ever  I  have  loved,  with  faltering  step, 
To  follow  thee  in  the  cold  and  starless  night, 
To  the  top-crag  of  some  rain -beaten  cliff; 
And  as  I  heard  the  deep  gun  bursting  loud 
Amid  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  have  pour'd 
Wild  strains,  and  mournful,  to  the  hurrying  winds, 
The  dying  soul's  viaticum;  if  oft 
Amid  the  carnage  of  the  field  I've  sate 
With  thee  upon  the  moonlight  throne,  and  sung 
To  cheer  the  fainting  soldier's  dying  soul, 
With  mercy  and  forgiveness — visitant 
Of  Heaven — sit  thou  upon  my  harp, 
And  give  it  feeling,  which  were  else  too  cold 
For  argument  so  great,  for  theme  so  high. 
How  dimly  on  that  morn  the  sun  arose, 
Kerchief 'd  in  mists,  and  tearful,  when 


HYMN. 


In  Heaven  we  shall  be  purified,  so  as  to  be  able  to  endure 
the  splendours  of  the  Deity. 


I. 

AWAKE,  sweet  harp  of  Judah,  wake, 
Retune  thy  strings  for  Jesus'  sake ; 


We  sing  the  Saviour  of  our  race, 

The  Lamb,  our  shield,  and  hiding-place. 

II. 

When  God's  right  arm  is  bared  for  war, 
And  thunders  clothe  his  cloudy  car, 
Where,  where,  oh  where,  shall  man  retire, 
To  escape  the  horrors  of  his  ire  ? 

III. 

'Tis  he,  the  Lamb,  to  him  we  fly, 
While  the  dread  tempest  passes  by  ; 
God  sees  his  Well-beloved's  face, 
And  spares  us  in  our  hiding-place. 

IV. 

Thus  while  we  dwell  in  this  low  scene, 
The  Lamb  is  our  unfailing  screen ; 
To  him,  though  guilty,  still  we  run, 
And  God  still  spares  us  for  his  Son. 

V. 

While  yet  we  sojourn  here  below, 
Pollutions  still  our  hearts  o'erflow ; 
Fallen,  abject,  mean,  a  sentenced  race, 
We  deeply  need  a  hiding-place. 

VI. 

Yet  courage — days  and  years  will  glide, 
And  we  shall  lay  these  clods  aside ; 
19* 


222  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Shall  be  baptized  in  Jordan's  flood, 
And  wash'd  in  Jesus'  cleansing  blood. 

VII. 

Then  pure,  immortal,  sinless,  freed, 
We  through  the  Lamb  shall  be  decreed  j 
Shall  meet  the  Father  face  to  face, 
And  need  no  more  a  hiding-place. 

The  last  stanza  of  this  hymn  was  added  extemporan- 
eously, by  Henry,  one  summer  evening,  when  he  was  with 
a  few  friends  on  the  Trent,  and  singing  it  as  he  was  used 
to  do  on  such  occasions. 


A   HYMN 

FOR  FAMILY  WORSHIP. 

I. 

0  LORD,  another  day  is  flown, 

And  we,  a  lonely  band, 
Are  met  once  more  before  thy  throne, 

To  bless  thy  fostering  hand. 

II. 

And  wilt  thou  bend  a  listening  ear, 

To  praises  low  as  ours  ? 
Thou  wilt !  for  Thou  dost  love  to  hear 

The  song  which  meekness  pours. 


HYMN   FOR    FAMILY    WORSHIP.  223 

III. 

And,  Jesus,  thou  thy  smiles  will  deign, 

As  we  before  thee  pray ; 
For  thou  didst  bless  the  infant  train, 

And  we  are  less  than  they. 

IV. 

0  let  thy  grace  perform  its  part, 

And  let  contention  cease ; 
And  shed  abroad  in  every  heart 

Thine  everlasting  peace  ! 

V. 

Thus  chasten'd,  cleansed,  entirely  thine, 

A  flock  by  Jesus  led ; 
The  Sun  of  Holiness  shall  shine, 

In  glory  on  our  head. 

VI. 

And  thou  will  turn  our  wandering  feet, 

And  thou  wilt  bless  our  way  ; 
Till  worlds  shall  fade,  and  faith  shall  greet 

The  dawn  of  lasting  day. 


224  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

I. 

•WHEN  marshall'd  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train, 
Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

II. 

Hark !  hark !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 
From  every  host,  from  every  gem ; 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks, 
It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

III. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud, — the  night  was  dark, 
The  ocean  yawn'd — and  rudely  blow'd. 

The  wind  that  toss'd  my  foundering  bark. 

IV. 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 

When  suddenly  a  star  arose, 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

V. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 
It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease  ; 

And  through  the  storm  and  dangers'  thrall, 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 


HYMN.  225 


VI. 


Now  safely  moor'd — my  perils  o'er, 
I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 

For  ever  and  for  evermore, 
The  star !— The  Star  of  Bethlehem ! 


A  HYMN. 

0  LORD,  my  God,  in  mercy  turn, 
In  mercy  hear  a  sinner  mourn  ! 
To  thee  I  call,  to  thee  I  cry, 

0  leave  me,  leave  me  not  to  die  ! 

1  strove  against  thee,  Lord,  I  know, 

I  spurn'd  thy  grace,  I  mock'd  thy  law ; 
The  hour  is  past — the  day's  gone  by, 
And  I  am  left  alone  to  die. 

0  pleasures  past,  what  are  ye  now 
But  thorns  about  my  bleeding  brow  ! 
Spectres  that  hover  round  my  brain, 
And  aggravate  and  mock  my  pain. 

For  pleasure  I  have  given  my  soul ; 
Now,  Justice,  let  thy  thunders  roll ! 
Now  Vengeance  smile — and  with  a  blow, 
Lay  the  rebellious  ingrate  low. 


226  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


Yet,  Jesus,  Jesus !  there  I'll  cling, 
I'll  crowd  beneath  his  sheltering  wing ; 
I'll  clasp  the  cross,  and  holding  there, 
Even  me,  oh  bliss  ! — his  wrath  may  spare. 


MELODY. 

Inserted  in  a  Collection  of  Selected  and  Original  Songs, 
published  by  the  Rev.  J.  Plumptre,  of  Clare  Hall,  Cam- 
bridge. 

I. 

YES,  once  more  that  dying  strain, 

Anna,  touch  thy  lute  for  me ; 
Sweet,  when  Pity's  tones  complain. 

Doubly  sweet  is  melody. 

II. 

While  the  Virtues  thus  enweave 

Mildly  soft  the  thrilling  song, 
Winter's  long  and  lonesome  eve 

Glides  unfelt,  unseen,  along. 

III. 

Thus  when  life  hath  stolen  away, 

And  the  wintry  night  is  near, 
Thus  shall  Virtue's  friendly  ray 

Age's  closing  evening  cheer. 


SONG. — BY    WALLER.  227 


SONG.— BY  WALLER. 


A  lady  of  Cambridge  lent  Waller's  Poems  to  Henry,  and 
when  he  returned  them  to  her,  she  discovered  an  addi- 
tional Stanza  written  by  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  Song 
here  copied. 

Go,  lovely  rose  ! 
Tell  her,  that  wastes  her  time  on  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired ; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  ; 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share, 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 


228  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

[Yet,  though  thou  fade, 
From  thy  dead  leaves  let  fragrance  rise ; 

And  teach  the  Maid 

That  Goodness  Time's  rude  hand  defies ; 
That  Virtue  lives  when  Beauty  dies.] 

H.  K.  WHITE. 


«I  AM  PLEASED,  AND  YET  I'M  SAD." 

I. 

WHEN  twilight  steals  along  the  ground, 
And  all  the  bells  are  ringing  round, 

One,  two,  three,  four,  and  five, 
I  at  my  study-window  sit, 
And,  wrapp'd  in  many  a  musing  fit, 

To  bliss  am  all  alive. 

II. 

But  though  impressions  calm  and  sweet 
Thrill  round  my  heart  a  holy  heat, 

And  I  am  inly  glad," 
The  tear-drop  stands  in  either  eye, 
And  yet  I  cannot  tell  thee  why, 

I  am  pleased,  and  yet  I'm  sad. 

III. 

The  silvery  rack  that  flies  away 
Like  mortal  life  or  pleasure's  ray, 


«I   AM   PLEASED,   AND    TET    IJM   SAD."  229 

Does  that  disturb  my  breast  ? 
Nay,  what  have  I,  a  studious  man, 
To  do  with  life's  unstable  plan. 

Or  pleasure's  fading  vest  ? 

IV. 

Is  it  that  here  I  must  not  stop, 
But  o'er  yon  blue  hill's  woody  top 

Must  bend  my  lonely  way  ? 
No,  surely  no  !  for  give  but  me 
My  own  fire-side,  and  I  shall  be 

At  home  where'er  I  stray. 

V. 

Then  is  it  that  yon  steeple  there, 
With  music  sweet  shall  fill  the  air, 

When  thou  no  more  canst  hear  ? 
Oh,  no  !  oh,  no  !  for  then  forgiven 
I  shall  be  with  my  God  in  Heaven, 

Released  from  every  fear. 

VI. 

Then  whence  it  is  I  cannot  tell, 
But  there  is  some  mysterious  spell 

That  holds  me  when  I'm  glad ; 
And  so  the  tear-drop  fills  my  eye, 
When  yet  in  truth  I  know  not  why, 

Or  wherefore  I  am  sad. 


20 


230  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


SOLITUDE. 

IT  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low, 
That  bids  this  silent  tear  to  flow  ; 
It  is  not  grief  that  bids  me  moan, 
It  is  that  I  am  all  alone. 

In  woods  and  glens  I  love  to  roam, 
When  the  tired  hedger  hies  him  home ; 
Or  by  the  woodland  pool  to  rest, 
When  pale  the  star  looks  on  its  breast. 

Yet  when  the  silent  evening  sighs, 
With  hallo w'd  airs  and  symphonies, 
My  spirit  takes  another  tone, 
And  sighs  that  it  is  all  alone. 

The  autumn  leaf  is  sear  and  dead, 
It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed ; 
I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh  ! 

The  woods  and  winds,  with  sudden  wail, 
Tell  all  the  same  unvaried  tale ; 
I've  none  to  smile  when  I  am  free, 
And  when  I  sigh,  to  sigh  with  me. 

Yet  in  my  dreams  a  form  I  view, 
That  thinks  on  me,  and  loves  me  too ; 
I  start,  and  when  the  vision's  flown, 
I  weep  that  I  am  all  alone. 


LINES    TO    FANNr.  231 


IF  far  from  me  the  Fates  remove 
Domestic  peace,  connubial  love, 
The  prattling  ring,  the  social  cheer, 
Affection's  voice,  affection's  tear, 
Ye  sterner  powers,  that  bind  the  heart, 
To  me  your  iron  aid  impart ! 

0  teach  me,  when  the  nights  are  chill, 
And  my  fire-side  is  lone  and  still ; 
When  to  the  blaze  that  crackles  near, 

1  turn  a  tired  and  pensive  ear, 

And  Nature  conquering  bids  me  sigh, 
For  love's  soft  accents  whispering  nigh  ; 

0  teach  me,  on  that  heavenly  road, 
That  leads  to  Truth's  occult  abode, 
To  wrap  my  soul  in  dreams  divine, 
Till  earth  and  care  no  more  be  mine. 
Let  bless'd  Philosophy  impart 

Her  soothing  measures  to  my  heart ; 
And  while  with  Plato's  ravish'd  ears 

1  list  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
Or  on  the  mystic  symbols  pore, 
That  hide  the  Chald's  sublimer  lore, 
I  shall  not  brood  on  summers  gone, 
Nor  think  that  I  am  all  alone. 


FANNY  !  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not  lie  ! 

Fanny !  thou  dost  not  hear  me  when  I  speak ! 
Where  art  thou,  love  ? — Around  I  turn  my  eye, 

And  as  I  turn,  the  tear  is  on  my  cheek. 


232  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  or  did  my  love  behold 

Indeed  my  lonely  couch  ? — Methought  the  breath 

Fann'd  not  her  bloodless  lip ;  her  eye  was  cold 
And  hollow,  and  the  livery  of  death 

Invested  her  pale  forehead. — Sainted  maid ! 
My  thoughts  oft  rest  with  thee  in  thy  cold  grave, 
Through  the  long  wintry  night,  when  wind  and 
wave 

Rock  the  dark  house  where  thy  poor  head  is  laid. 

Yet,  hush !  my  fond  heart,  hush  !  there  is  a  shore 
Of  better  promise  ;  and  I  know  at  last, 
When  the  long  sabbath  of  the  tomb  is  past, 

We  two  shall  meet  in  Christ — to  part  no  more. 


POEMS 


VARIOUS  DATES. 


20  *  233 


CHILDHOOD: 

A  POEM. 


This  appears  to  be  one  of  the  Author's  earliest  productions : 
written  about  the  age  of  fourteen. 


PART  I. 

PICTURED  in  memory's  mellowing  glass  how  sweet 
Our  infant  days,  our  infant  joys  to  greet ; 
To  roam  in  fancy  in  each  cherish'd  scene, 
The  village  church-yard,  and  the  village-green, 
The  woodland  walk  remote,  the  greenwood  glade, 
The  mossy  seat  beneath  the  hawthorn's  shade, 
The  white-wash'd  cottage,  where  the  woodbine 

grew, 

And  all  the  favourite  haunts  our  childhood  knew  ! 
How  swtet,  while  all  the  evil  shuns  the  gaze, 
To  view  th'  unclouded  skies  of  former  days  ! 

Beloved  age  of  innocence  and  smiles, 
When  each  wing'd  hour  some  new  delight  beguiles. 
When  the  gay  heart,  to  life's  sweet  day-spring  true, 
Still  finds  some  insect  pleasure  to  pursue. 
Bless'd  Childhood,  hail ! — Thee  simply  will  I  sing, 
And  from  myself  the  artless  picture  bring ; 
These  long-lost  scenes  to  me  the  past  restore, 

235 


2S3  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Each  humble  friend,  each  pleasure  now  no  more, 
And  every  stump  familiar  to  my  sight 
Recalls  some  fond  idea  of  delight. 

This  shrubby  knoll  was  once  my  favourite  seat ; 
Here  did  I  love  at  evening  to  retreat, 
And  muse  alone,  till  in  the  vault  of  night, 
Hesper,  aspiring,  show'd  his  golden  light. 
Here  once  again,  remote  from  human  noise, 
I  sit  me  down  to  think  of  former  joys  ;         [more, 
Pause  on  each  scene,  each  treasured  scene,  once 
And  once  again  each  infant  walk  explore. 
While  as  each  grove  and  lawn  I  recognise, 
My  melted  soul  suffuses  in  my  eyes. 

And  oh !  thou  Power,  whose  myriad  trains  resort 
To  distant  scenes,  and  picture  them  to  thought ; 
Whose  mirror,  held  unto  the  mourner's  eye, 
Flings  to  his  soul  a  borrow'd  gleam  of  joy ; 
Bless'd  memory,  guide,  with  finger  nicely  true, 
Back  to  my  youth  my  retrospective  view ; 
Recall  with  faithful  vigour  to  my  mind, 
Each  face  familiar,  each  relation  kind ; 
And  all  the  finer  traits  of  them  afford, 
Whose  general  outline  in  my  heart  is  stored. 

In  yonder  cot,  along  whose  mouldering  walls, 
In  many  a  fold  the  mantling  woodbine  falls, 
The  village  matron  kept  her  little  school, 
Gentle  of  heart,  yet  knowing  well  to  rule ; 
Staid  was  the  dame,  and  modest  was  her  mien ; 
Her  garb  was  coarse,  yet  whole,  and  nicely  clean : 


CHILDHOOD.  237 

Her  neatly  border'd  cap,  as  lily  fair, 

Beneath  her  chin  was  pinn'd  with  decent  care  ; 

And  pendent  ruffles,  of  the  whitest  lawn, 

Of  ancient  make,  her  elbows  did  adorn. 

Faint  with  old  age,  and  dim  were  grown  her  eyes, 

A  pair  of  spetacles  their  want  supplies  ; 

These  does  she  guard  secure  in  leathern  case. 

From  thoughtless  wights,  in  some  unweeted  place. 

Here  first  I  enter'd,  though  with  toil  and  pain, 
The  low  vestibule  of  learning's  fane ; 
Enter'd  with  pain,  yet  soon  I  found  the  way, 
Though  sometimes  toilsome,  many  a  sweet  display. 
Much  did  I  grieve,  on  that  ill-fated  morn, 
While  I  was  first  to  school  reluctant  borne : 
Severe  I  thought  the  dame,  though  oft  she  try'd 
To  soothe  my  swelling  spirits  when  I  sigh'd ; 
And  oft,  when  harshly  she  reproved,  I  wept, 
To  my  lone  corner  broken-hearted  crept,     [kept. 
And  thought  of  tender  home,  where  anger  never 

But  soon  inured  to  alphabetic  toils, 
Alert  I  met  the  dame  with  jocund  smiles ; 
First  at  the  form,  my  task  for  ever  true, 
A  little  favourite  rapidly  I  grew : 
And  oft  she  stroked  my  head  with  fond  delight, 
Held  me  a  pattern  to  the  dunce's  sight ; 
And  as  she  gave  my  diligence  its  praise, 
Talk'd  of  the  honours  of  my  future  days. 

Oh !  had  the  venerable  matron  thought 
Of  all  the  ills  by  talent  often  brought ; 


238  H.    K.    WHITE  S   POEMS. 

Could  she  have  seen  me  when  revolving  years 
Had  brought  me  deeper  in  the  vale  of  tears, 
Then  had  she  wept,  and  wish'd  my  wayward  fate 
Had  been  a  lowlier,  an  unletter'd  state ; 
Wish'd  that,  remote  from  worldly  woes  and  strife, 
Unknown,  unheard,  I  might  have  pass'd  through 
life. 

Where,  in  the  busy  scene,  by  peace  unbless'd, 
Shall  the  poor  wanderer  find  a  place  of  rest  ? 
A  lonely  mariner  on  the  stormy  main, 
Without  a  hope,  the  calms  of  peace  to  gain  ; 
Long  toss'd  by  tempest  o'er  the  world's  wide  shore, 
When  shall  his  spirit  rest  to  toil  no  more  ? 
Not  till  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  shall  lave 
The  sandy  surface  of  his  unwept  grave. 
Childhood,  to  thee  I  turn,  from  life's  alarms, 
Serenest  season  of  perpetual  calms, — 
Turn  with  delight,  and  bid  the  passions  cease, 
And  joy  to  think  with  thee  I  tasted  peace. 
Sweet  reign  of  innocence  when  no  crime  defiles, 
But  each  new  object  brings  attendant  smiles ; 
When  future  evils  never  haunt  the  sight, 
But  all  is  pregnant  with  unmix'd  delight ; 
To  thee  I  turn,  from  riot  and  from  noise, 
Turn  to  partake  of  more  congenial  joys. 

'Neath  yonder  elm,  that  stands  upon  the  moor, 
When  the  clock  spoke  the  hour  of  labour  o'er, 
What  clamorous  throngs,  what  happy  groups  were 

seen, 
In  various  postures  scatt'ring  o'er  the  green ! 


CHILDHOOD.  239 

Some  shoot  the  marble,  others  join  the  chase 
Of  self-made  stag,  or  run  the  emulous  race ; 
While  others,  seated  on  the  dappled  grass, 
With  doleful  tales  the  light-winged  minutes  pass. 
Well  I  remember  how,  with  gesture  starch'd, 
A  band  of  soldiers,  oft  with  pride  we  march'd  ; 
For  banners,  to  a  tall  ash  we  did  bind 
Our  handkerchiefs,  flapping  to  the  whistling  wind ; 
And  for  our  warlike  arms  we  sought  the  mead, 
And  guns  and  spears  we  made  of  brittle  reed ; 
Then,  in  uncouth  array,  our  feats  to  crown, 
We  storm'd  some  ruin'd  pig-sty  for  a  town. 

Pleased  with  our  gay  disports,  the  dame  was  wont 
To  set  her  wheel  before  the  cottage  front, 
And  o'er  her  spectacles  would  often  peer, 
To  view  our  gambols,  and  our  boyish  geer. 
Still  as  she  look'd,  her  wheel  kept  turning  round, 
With  its  beloved  monotony  of  sound. 
When  tired  with  play,  we'd  set  us  by  her  side 
(For  out  of  school  she  never  knew  to  chide) — 
And  wonder  at  her  skill — well  known  to  fame — 
For  who  could  match  in  spinning  with  the  dame  ? 
Her  sheets,  her  linen,  which  she  showed  with  pride 
To  strangers,  still  her  thriftiness  testified  ; 
Though  we  poor  wights  did  wonder  much  in  troth, 
How  'twas  her  spinning  manufactured  cloth. 

Oft  would  we  leave,  though  well-beloved,  our  play, 
To  chat  at  home  the  vacant  hour  away. 
Many's  the  time  I've  scamper'd  down  the  glade, 
To  ask  the  promised  ditty  from  the  maid, 


240  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Which  well  she  loved,  as  well  she  knew  to  sing, 
While  we  around  her  form'd  a  little  ring ; 
She  told  of  innocence  foredoom'd  to  bleed, 
Of  wicked  guardians  bent  on  bloody  deed, 
Or  little  children  murder'd  as  they  slept ; 
While  at  each  pause  we  wrung  our  hands  and  wept. 
Sad  was  such  tale,  and  wonder  much  did  we, 
Such  hearts  of  stone  there  in  the  world  could  be. 
Poor  simple  wights,  ah  !  little  did  we  ween 
The  ills  that  wait  on  man  in  life's  sad  scene  ! 
Ah,  little  thought  that  we  ourselves  should  know, 
This  world's  a  world  of  weeping  and  of  wo  ! 

Beloved  moment !  then  'twas  first  1  caught 
The  first  foundation  of  romantic  thought ; 
Then  first  I  shed  bold  Fancy's  thrilling  tear, 
Then  first  that  poesy  charm'd  mine  infant  ear. 
Soon  stored  with  much  of  legendary  lore, 
The  sports  of  Childhood  charm'd  my  soul  no  more. 

Far  from  the  scene  of  gayety  and  noise, 
Far,  far  from  turbulent  and  empty  joys, 
I  hied  me  to  the  thick  o'er-arching  shade, 
And  there,  on  mossy  carpet,  listless  laid, 
While  at  my  feet  the  rippling  runnel  ran, 
The  days  of  wild  romance  antique  I'd  scan ; 
Soar  on  the  wings  of  fancy  through  the  air, 
To  realms  of  light,  and  pierce  the  radiance  there. 


CHILDHOOD.  241 

PART  II. 

THERE  are,  who  think  that  childhood  does  not 

share 

With  age  the  cup,  the  bitter  cup  of  care  : 
Alas  !  they  know  not  this  unhappy  truth, 
That  every  age,  and  rank,  is  born  to  ruth. 

From  the  first  dawn  of  reason  in  the  mind, 
Man  is  foredoom'd  the  thonis  of  grief  to  find ; 
At  every  step  has  farther  cause  to  know, 
The  draught  of  pleasure  still  is  dash'd  with  wo. 

Yet  in  the  youthful  breast  for  ever  caught 
With  some  new  object  for  romantic  thought, 
The  impression  of  the  moment  quickly  flies, 
And  with  the  morrow  every  sorrow  dies. 

How  different  manhood ! — then  does  Thought's 

control 

Sink  every  pang  still  deeper  in  the  soul ; 
Then  keen  Affliction's  sad  unceasing  smart 
Becomes  a  painful  resident  in  the  heart ; 
And  Care,  whom  not  the  gayest  can  out-brave, 
Pursues  its  feeble  victim  to  the  grave.        [hence, 
Then,  as  each  long-known  friend  is  summoned 
We  feel  a  void  no  joy  can  recompense, 
And  as  we  weep  o'er  every  new-made  tomb, 
Wish  that  ourselves  the  next  may  meet  our  doom. 

Yes,  Childhood,  thee  no  rankling  woes  pursue, 
No  forms  of  future  ill  salute  thy  view, 
21 


242  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

No  pangs  repentant  bid  thee  wake  to  weep, 
But  halcyon  peace  protects  thy  downy  sleep, 
And  sanguine  Hope,  through  every  storm  of  life, 
Shoots  her  bright  beams,  and  calms  the  internal 
strife.  [shrine, 

Yet  even  round  childhood's  heart,  a  thoughtless 
Affection's  little  thread  will  ever  twine  ; 
And  though  but  frail  may  seem  each  tender  tie, 
The  soul  foregoes  them  but  with  many  a  sigh. 
Thus,  when  the  long-expected  moment  came, 
When  forced  to  leave  the  gentle-hearted  dame, 
Reluctant  throbbings  rose  within  my  breast, 
And  a  still  tear  my  silent  grief  express'd. 
When  to  the  public  school  compell'd  to  go, 
What  novel  scenes  did  on  my  senses  flow  ! 
There  in  each  breast  each  active  power  dilates, 
Which  broils  whole  nations,  and  convulses  states ; 
There  reigns  by  turns  alternate,  love  and  hate, 
Ambition  burns,  and  factious  rebels  prate ; 
And  in  a  smaller  range,  a  smaller  sphere, 
The  dark  deformities  of  man  appear. 
Yet  there  the  gentler  virtues  kindred  claim, 
There  Friendship  lights  her  pure  untainted  flame, 
There  mild  Benevolence  delights  to  dwell, 
And  sweet  Contentment  rests  without  her  cell ; 
And  there,  'mid  many  a  stormy  soul,  we  find 
The  good  of  heart,  the  intelligent  of  mind. 

'Twas  there,  0,  George  !  with  thee  I  learn'd  to  join 
In  Friendship's  bands — in  amity  divine. 
Oh,  mournful  thought ! — Where  is  thy  spirit  now  ? 
As  here  I  sit  on  favourite  Logar's  brow, 


CHILDHOOD.  243 

And  trace  below  each  well-remembered  glade, 
Where  arm  in  arm,  ere  while  with  thee  I  stray 'd. 
Where  art  thou  laid — on  what  untrodden  shore, 
Where  nought  is  heard  save  ocean's  sullen  roar, 
Dost  thou  in  lowly,  unlamented  state, 
At  last  repose  from  all  the  storms  of  fate  ? 
Methinks  I  see  thee  struggling  with  the  wave, 
Without  one  aiding  hand  stretch'd  out  to  save  ; 
See  thee  convulsed,  thy  looks  to  heaven  bend, 
And  send  thy  parting  sigh  unto  thy  friend ; 
Or  where  immeasurable  wilds  dismay, 
Forlorn  and  sad  thou  bend'st  thy  weary  way, 
While  sorrow  and  disease  with  anguish  rife, 
Consume  apace  the  ebbing  springs  of  life. 
Again  I  see  his  door  against  thee  shut, 
The  unfeeling  native  turn  thee  from  his  hut ; 
I  see  thee  spent  with  toil  and  worn  with  grief, 
Sit  o,n  the  grass,  and  wish  the  long'd  relief; 
Then  lie  thee  down,  the  stormy  struggle  o'er, 
Think  on  thy  native  land — and  rise  no  more  ! 

Oh  !   that  thou  could'st,  from  thine  august  abode, 
Survey  thy  friend  in  life's  dismaying  road, 
That  thou  could'st  see  him  at  this  moment  here, 
Embalm  thy  memory  with  a  pious  tear, 
And  hover  o'er  him  as  he  gazes  round, 
Where  all  the  scenes  of  infant  joys  surround. 

Yes  !  yes  !   his  spirit's  near ! — The   whispering 

breeze 

Conveys  his  voice  sad  sighing  on  the  trees ; 
And  lo  !  his  form  transparent  I  perceive, 


244  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Borne  on  the  gray  mist  of  the  sullen  eve : 

He  hovers  near,  clad  in  the  night's  dim  robe, 

While  deathly  silence  reigns  upon  the  globe. 

Yet  ah  !  whence  comes  this  visionary  scene  ? 

'Tis  Fancy's  wild  aerial  dream  I  ween ; 

By  her  inspired,  when  reason  takes  its  flight, 

What  fond  illusions  beam  upon  the  sight ! 

She  waves  her  hand,  and  lo  !  what  forms  appear  ! 

What  magic  sounds  salute  the  wondering  ear ! 

Once  more  o'er  distant  regions  do  we  tread, 

And  the  cold  grave  yields  up  its  cherish'd  dead ; 

While  present  sorrows  banish 'd  far  away, 

Unclouded  azure  gilds  the  placid  day, 

Or  in  the  future's  cloud-encircled  face, 

Fair  scenes  of  bliss  to  come  we  fondly  trace, 

And  draw  minutely  every  little  wile, 

Which  shall  the  feathery  hours  of  time  beguile. 

So  when  forlorn,  and  lonesome  at  her  gate, 
The  Royal  Mary  solitary  sate, 
Andview'dthe  moon-beam  trembling  on  the  wave, 
And  heard  the  hollow  surge  her  prison  lave, 
Towards  France's  distant  coast  she  bent  her  sight, 
For  there  her  soul  had  wing'd  its  longing  flight ; 
There  did  she  form  full  many  a  scheme  of  joy, 
Visions  of  bliss  unclouded  with  alloy,     [beam'd, 
Which  bright  through   Hope's  deceitful  optics 
And  all  became  the  surety  which  it  seem'd  ; 
She  wept,  yet  felt,  while  all  within  was  calm, 
In  every  tear  a  melancholy  charm. 

To  yonder  hill,  whose  sides,  deform'd  and  steep, 


CHILDHOOD.  245 

Just  yield  a  scanty  sust'nance  to  the  sheep, 
With  thee,  my  friend,  I  oftentimes  have  sped, 
To  see  the  sun  rise  from  his  healthy  bed  ; 
To  watch  the  aspect  of  the  summer  morn, 
Smiling  upon  the  golden  fields  of  corn, 
And  taste  delighted  of  superior  joys, 
Beheld  through  Sympathy's  enchanted  eyes  : 
With  silent  admiration  oft  we  view'd     [strew'd ; 
The   myriad  hues  o'er  heaven's  blue  concave 
The  fleecy  clouds,  of  every  tint  and  shade, 
Round  which  the  silvery  sun-beam  glancing  play'd, 
And  the  round  orb  itself,  in  azure  throne, 
Just  peeping  o'er  the  blue  hill's  ridgy  zone  ; 
We  mark'd  delighted,  how  with  aspect  gay, 
Reviving  Nature,  hail'd  returning  day ;      [heads, 
Mark'd  how  the  flowerets  rear'd  their  drooping 
And  the  wild  lambkins  bounded  o'er  the  meads, 
While  from  each  tree,  in  tones  of  sweet  delight, 
The  birds  sung  paeans  to  the  source  of  light : 
Oft  have  we  watch'd  the  speckled  lark  arise, 
Leave  his  grass  bed,  and  soar  to  kindred  skies 
And  rise,  and  rise,  till  the  pain'd  sight  no  more 
Could  trace  him  in  his  high  aerial  tour ; 
Though  on  the  ear,  at  intervals,  his  song 
Came  wafted  slow  the  wary  breeze  along ; 
And  we  have  thought  how  happy  were  our  lot, 
Bless'd  with  some  sweet,  some  solitary  cot, 
Where,  from  the  peep  of  day,  till  russet  eve 
Began  in  every  dell  her  forms  to  weave, 
We  might  pursue  our  sports  from  day  to  day, 
And  in  each  other's  arms  wear  life  away. 

21  * 


246  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

At  sultry  noon  too,  when  our  toils  were  done, 
We  to  the  gloomy  glen  were  wont  to  run ; 
There  on  the  turf  we  Jay,  while  at  our  feet 
The  cooling  rivulet  rippled  softly  sweet  : 
And  mused  on  holy  theme,  and  ancient  lore 
Of  deeds,  and  days,  and  heroes  now  no  more ; 
Heard,  as  his  solemn  harp  Isaiah  swept, 
Sung  wo  unto  the  wicked  land — and  wept ; 
Or,  fancy -led — saw  Jeremiah  mourn 
In  solemn  sorrow  o'er  Judea's  urn. 
Then  to  another  shore  perhaps  would  rove, 
With  Plato  talk  in  his  Ilyssian  grove  ; 
Or,  wandering  where  the  Thespian  palace  rose, 
Weep  once  again  o'er  fair  Jocasta's  woes. 

Sweet  then  to  us  was  that  romantic  band, 
The  ancient  legends  of  our  native  land — 
Chivalric  Britomart,  and  Una  fair, 
And  courteous  Constance,  doom'd  to  dark  despair, 
By  turns  our  thoughts  engaged ;  and  oft  we  talk'd, 
Of  times  when  monarch  superstition  stalk'd, 
And  when  the  blood-fraught  galliots  of  Rome 
Brought  the  grand  Druid  fabric  to  its  doom  : 
While,  where  the  wood-hung  Meinai's  waters  flow, 
The  hoary  harpers  pour'd  the  strain  of  wo. 

While  thus  employ'd,  to  us  how  sad  the  bell  [knell, 

Which  summon'd  us  to  school !  'Twas  P'ancy's 

And,  sadly  sounding  on  the  sullen  ear, 

It  spoke  of  study  pale,  and  chilling  fear. 

Yet  even  then,  (for  oh  !  what  chains  can  bind, 

What  powers  control,  the  energies  of  mind  !) 


CHILDHOOD.  247 

Even  then  we  soar'd  to  many  a  height  sublime, 
And  many  a  day-dream  cfyarm'd  the  lazy  time. 

At  evening  too,  how  pleasing  was  our  walk, 
Endear'd  by  Friendship's  unrestrained  talk, 
When  to  the  upland  heights  we  bent  our  way, 
To  view  the  last  beam  of  departing  day ; 
How  calm  was  all  around  !  no  playful  breeze 
Sigh'd  mid  the  wavy  foliage  of  the  trees, 
But  all  was  still,  save  when,  with  drowsy  song, 
The  gray -fly  wound  his  sullen  horn  along ; 
And  save  when,  heard  in  soft,  yet  merry  glee, 
The  distant  church-bells'  mellow  harmony ; 
The  silver  mirror  of  the  lucid  brook, 
That  'mid  the  tufted  broom  its  still  course  took ; 
The  rugged  arch,  that  clasp 'd  its  silent  tides, 
With  moss  and  rank  weeds  hanging  down  its  sides : 
The  craggy  rock,  that  jutted  on  the  sight ; 
The  shrieking  bat,  that  took  its  heavy  flight ; 
All,  all  was  pregnant  with  divine  delight. 
We  loved  to  watch  the  swallow  swimming  high, 
In  the  bright  azure  of  the  vaulted  sky  ; 
Or  gaze  upon  the  clouds,  whose  colour'd  pride 
Was  scatter 'd  thinly  o'er  the  welkin  wide, 
And  tinged  with  such  variety  of  shade, 
To  the  charm'd  soul  sublimest  thoughts  conveyed. 
In  these  what  forms  romantic  did  we  trace, 
While  Fancy  led  us  o'er  the  realms  of  space  ! 
Now  we  espied  the  Thunderer  in  his  car, 
Leading  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war, 
Then  stately  towers  descried,  sublimely  high, 
In  Gothic  grandeur  frowning  on  the  sky — 


248  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Or  saw,  wide  stretching  o'er  the  azure  height, 
A  ridge  of  glaciers  dressed  in  mural  white, 
Hugely  terrific. — But  those  times  are  o'er, 
And  the  fond  scene  can  charm  mine  eyes  no  more ; 
For  thou  art  gone,  and  I  am  left  below, 
Alone  to  struggle  through  this  world  of  wo. 

The  scene  is  o'er — still  seasons  onward  roll, 

And  each  revolve  conducts  me  toward  the  goal ; 

Yet  all  is  blank,  without  one  soft  relief, 

One  endless  continuity  of  grief; 

And  the  tired  soul,  now  led  to  thoughts  sublime, 

Looks  but  for  rest  beyond  the  bounds  of  time. 

Toil  on,  toil  on,  ye  busy  crowds,  that  pant 
For  hoards  of  wealth  which  ye  will  never  want  : 
And,  lost  to  all  but  gain,  with  ease  resign 
The  calms  of  peace  and  happiness  divine  ! 
Far  other  cares  be  mine — Men  little  crave 
In  this  short  journey  to  the  silent  grave  ;   [health, 
And  the  poor  peasant,  bless'd  with    peace   and 
I  envy  more  than  Croesus  with  his  wealth. 
Yet  grieve  not  I,  that  Fate  did  not  decree 
Paternal  acres  to  await  on  me ; 
She  gave  me  more,  she  placed  within  my  breast 
A  heart  with  little  pleased — with  little  bless'd : 
I  look  around  me,  where,  on  every  side, 
Extensive  manors  spread  in  wealthy  pride ; 
And  could  my  sight  be  borne  to  either  zone, 
I  should  not  find  one  foot  of  land  my  own. 

But  whither  do  I  wander  ?  shall  the  muse 


CHILDHOOD.  249 

For  golden  baits,  her  simple  theme  refuse  ? 

Oh,  no  !  but  while  the  weary  spirit  greets 

The  fading  scenes  of  childhood's  far-gone  sweets, 

It  catches  all  the  infant's  wandering  tongue, 

And  prattles  on  in  desultory  song. 

That  song  must  close — the  gloomy  mists  of  night 

Obscure  the  pale  stars'  visionary  light, 

And  ebon  darkness,  clad  in  vapoury  wet, 

Steals  on  the  welkin  in  primasval  jet. 

The  song  must  close. — Once  more  my  adverse  lot 
Leads  me  reluctant  from  this  cherish'd  spot : 
Again  compels  to  plunge  in  busy  life, 
And  brave  the  hateful  turbulence  of  strife. 

Scenes  of  my  youth — ere  my  unwilling  feet 
Are  turn'd  for  ever  from  this  loved  retreat, 
Ere  on  these  fields,  with  plenty  cover'd  o'er 
My  eyes  are  closed  to  ope  on  them  no  more, 
Let  me  ejaculate,  to  feeling  due, 
One  long,  one  last  affectionate  adieu. 
Grant  that,  if  ever  Providence  should  please 
To  give  me  an  old  age  of  peace  and  ease, 
Grant  that,  in  these  sequester'd  shades,  my  days 
May  wear  away  in  gradual  decays ; 
And  oh  !  ye  spirits,  who  unbodied  play, 
Unseen  upon  the  pinions  of  the  day, 
Kind  genii  of  my  native  fields  benign, 
Who  were  *     *     *     * 


FRAGMENT 

OF    AN 

ECCENTRIC    DRAMA, 

WRITTEN   AT    A   VERY    EARLY    AGE. 

THE  DANCE  OF  THE  CONSUMPTIVES. 

1. 

DING-DONG  !  ding-dong ! 
Merry,  merry,  go  the  bells, 

Ding-dong !  ding-dong ! 
Over  the  heath,  over  the  moor,  and  over  the  dale, 

"  Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar," 
Dance,  dance  away  the  jocund  roundelay  ! 
Ding-dong,  ding-dong,  calls  us  away. 

2. 

Round  the  oak,  and  round  the  elm, 

Merrily  foot  it  o'er  the  ground  ! 
The  sentry  ghost  it  stands  aloof, 
So  merrily,  merrily  foot  it  round. 
Ding-dong !  ding-dong ! 
Merry,  merry  go  the  bells 
Swelling  in  the  nightly  gale, 
The  sentry  ghost, 
It  keeps  its  post, 
250 


THE    DANCE    OF    THE    CONSUMPTIVES.      251 

And  soon,  and  soon  our  sports  must  fail  : 
But  let  us  trip  the  nightly  ground, 
While  the  merry,  merry  bells  ring  round. 

3. 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  death-watch  ticks  ! 
See,  see,  the  winding-sheet ! 

Our  dance  is  done, 

Our  race  is  run, 
And  we  must  lie  at  the  alder's  feet ! 

Ding-dong,  ding-dong, 

Merry,  merry  go  the  bells, 
Swinging  o'er  the  weltering  wave  ! 

And  we  must  seek 

Our  death-beds  bleak, 
Where  the  green  sod  grows  upon  the  grave. 

They  vanish —  The  Goddess  of  Consumption  de- 
scends, habited  in  a  sky-blue  Robe,  attended  by 
mournful  Music. 

Come,  Melancholy,  sister  mine, 

Cold  the  dews,  and  chill  the  night ! 
Come  from  thy  dreary  shrine  ! 
,  The  wan  moon  climbs  the  heavenly  height, 

And  underneath  the  sickly  ray, 

Troops  of  squalid  spectres  play, 

And  the  dying  mortals'  groan 

Startles  the  night  on  her  dusky  throne. 

Come,  come,  sister  mine  ! 

Gliding  on  the  pale  moon-shine : 


252  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

We'll  ride  at  ease, 
On  the  tainted  breeze, 
And  oh !  our  sport  will  be  divine. 

The  Goddess  of  Melancholy  advances  out  of  a 
deep  Glen  in  the  rear,  habited  in  Black  and 
covered  with  a  thick  Veil — She  speaks. 

Sister,  from  my  dark  abode, 
Where  nests  the  raven,  sits  the  toad, 
Hither  I  come,  at  thy  command : 
Sister,  sister,  join  thy  hand  ! 
Sister,  sister,  join  thy  hand  ! 
I  will  smooth  the  way  for  thee, 
Thou  shalt  furnish  food  for  me. 
Come,  let  us  speed  our  way 
Where  the  troops  of  spectres  play 
To  charnel-houses,  church-yards  drear, 
Where  Death  sits  with  a  horrible  leer, 
A  lasting  grin,  on  a  throne  of  bones, 
And  skim  along  the  blue  tomb-stones. 

Come,  let  us  speed  away, 
Lay  our  snares,  and  spread  our  tether  ! 
I  will  smooth  the  way  for  thee, 
Thou  shalt  furnish  food  for  me  ; 
And  the  grass  shall  wave 
O'er  many  a  grave, 
Where  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 

CONSUMPTION. 

Come,  let  us  speed  our  way  ! 
Join  our  hands,  and  spread  our  tether ! 


THE    DANCE    OF    THE    CONSUMPTIVES.     253 

I  will  furnish  food  for  thee, 

Thou  shall  smooth  the  way  for  me  ; 

And  the  grass  shall  wave 

O'er  many  a  grave, 
Where  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 

MELANCHOLY. 

Hist,  sister,  hist !  who  comes  here  ? 
Oh  !  I  know  her  by  that  tear, 
By  that  blue  eye's  languid  glare, 
By  her  skin,  and  by  her  hair  : 
She  is  mine, 
And  she  is  thine, 
Now  the  deadliest  draught  prepare. 

CONSUMPTION. 

In  the  dismal  night  air  dress'd,  ' 
I  will  creep  into  her  breast ; 
Flush  her  cheek,  and  bleach  her  skin, 
And  feed  on  the  vital  fire  within. 
Lover,  do  not  trust  her  eyes, — 
When  they  sparkle  most,  she  dies ! 
Mother,  do  not  trust  her  breath, — 
Comfort  she  will  breathe  in  death  ! 
Father,  do  not  strive  to  save  her, — 
She  is  mine,  and  I  must  have  her ! 
The  coffin  must  be  her  bridal  bed ; 
The  winding-sheet  must  wrap  her  head ; 
The  whispering  winds  must  o'er  her  sigh, 
For  soon  in  the  grave  the  maid  must  lie, 
22 


254  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

The  worm  it  will  riot 
On  heavenly  diet, 
When  death  has  deflower'd  her  eye. 

[  They  vanish. 

While  CONSUMPTION  speaks,  ANGELINA  enters. 
ANGELINA. 

With*  what  a  silent  and  dejected  pace 
Dost  thou,  wan  Moon !  upon  thy  way  advance 
In  the  blue  welkin's  vault ! — Pale  wanderer  ! 
Hast  thou  too  felt  the  pangs  of  hopeless  love, 
That  thus,  with  such  a  melancholy  grace, 
Thou  dost  pursue  thy  solitary  course  ? 
Has  thy  Endymion,  smooth-faced  boy,  forsook 
Thy  widow'd  breast — on  which  the  spoiler  oft 
Has  nestled  fondly,  while  the  silver  clouds 
Fantastic  pillow 'd  thee,  and  the  dim  night, 
Obsequious  to  thy  will,  encurtain'd  round 
With  its  thick  fringe  thy  couch  ? — Wan  traveller, 
How  like  thy  fate  to  mine ! — Yet  I  have  still 
One  heavenly  hope  remaining,  which  thou  lack'st ; 
My  woes  will  soon  be  buried  in  the  grave 
Of  kind  forge tfulness : — my  journey  here, 
Though  it  be  darksome,  joyless,  and  forlorn, 
Is  yet  but  short,  and  soon  my  weary  feet 
Will  greet  the  peaceful  inn  of  lasting  rest. 
But  thou,  unhappy  Queen  !  art  doom'd  to  trace 

*  With  how  sad  steps,  O  moon  !  thou  climb'st  the  skies, 
How  silently  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! 

Sir  P.  Sidney 


THE    DANCE    OP    THE    CONSUMPTIVES.     255 

Thy  lonely  walk  in  the  drear  realms  of  night, 
While  many  a  lagging  age  shall  sweep  beneath 
The  leaden  pinions  of  unshaken  time  ; 
Though  not  a  hope  shall  spread  its  glittering  hue 
To  cheat  thy  steps  along  the  weary  way. 

0  that  the  sum  of  human  happiness 
Should  be  so  trifling,  and  so  frail  withal, 
That  when  possess'd,  it  is  but  lessen'd  grief; 
And  even  then  there's  scarce  a  sudden  gust 
That  blows  across  the  dismal  waste  of  life, 
But  bears  it  from  the  view. — Oh !  who  would  shun 
The  hour  that  cuts  from  earth,  and  fear  to  press 
The  calm  and  peaceful  pillows  of  the  grave, 
And  yet  endure  the  various  ills  of  life, 
And  dark  vicissitudes  ! — Soon,  I  hope,  I  feel, 
And  am  assured,  that  I  shall  lay  my  head, 
My  weary  aching  head,  on  its  last  rest, 
And  on  my  lowly  bed  the  grass-green  sod 
Will  flourish  sweetly. — And  then  they  will  weep 
That  one  so  young,  and  what  they're  pleased  to 

call 

So  beautiful,  should  die  so  soon — And  tell 
How  painful  Disappointment's  canker 'd  fang 
Wither'd  the  rose  upon  my  maiden  cheek, 
Oh,  foolish  ones  !  why,  I  shall  sleep  so  sweetly, 
Laid  in  my  darksome  grave,  that  they  themselves 
Might  envy  me  my  rest ! — And  as  for  them 
Who,  on  the  score  of  former  intimacy, 
May  thus  remembrance  me — they  must  themselves 
Successive  fall. 

Around  the  winter  fire 
(When  out-a-doors  the  biting  frost  congeals, 


256.  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  shrill  the  skater's  irons  on  the  pool 

Ring  loud,  as  by  the  moonlight  he  performs 

His  graceful  evolutions)  they  not  long 

Shall  sit  and  chat  of  older  times,  and  feats 

Of  early  youth,  but  silent,  one  by  one, 

Shall  drop  into  their  shrouds. — Some,  in  their  age, 

Ripe  for  the  sickle  ;  others  young,  like  me, 

And  falling  green  beneath  th'  untimely  stroke. 

Thus,  in  short  time,  in  the  church-yard  forlorn, 

Where  I  shall  lie,  my  friends  will  lay  them  down, 

And  dwell  with  me,  a  happy  family. 

And  oh  !  thou  cruel,  yet  beloved  youth, 

Who  now  hast  left  me  hopeless  here  to  mourn, 

Do  thou  but  shed  one  tear  upon  my  corse, 

And  say  that  I  was  gentle  and  deserved 

A  better  lover,  and  I  shall  forgive 

All,  all  thy  wrongs ; — and  then  do  thou  forget 

The  hapless  Margaret,  and  be  as  bless'd       [sing, 

As  wish  can  make  thee — Laugh,  and  play,  and 

With  thy  dear  choice,  and  never  think  of  me. 

Yet  hist,  I  hear  a  step. — In  this  dark  wood — 


TO   A   FRIEND. 

WRITTEN    AT    A    VERY   EARLY   AGE. 

I'VE  read,  my  friend,  of  Dioclesian, 
And  many  other  noble  Grecian, 
Who  wealth  and  palaces  resign'd, 
In  cots  the  joys  of  peace  to  find  j 


TO    A    FRIEND.  257 

Maximian's  meal  of  turnip-tops, 

(Disgusting  food  to  dainty  chops,) 

I've  also  read  of,  without  wonder ; 

But  such  a  curs'd  egregious  blunder, 

As  that  a  man  of  wit  and  sense, 

Should  leave  his  books  to  hoard  up  pence.-— 

Forsake  the  loved  Aonian  maids, 

For  all  the  petty  tricks  of  trades, 

I  never,  either  now,  or  long  since, 

Have  heard  of  such  a  piece  of  nonsense ; 

That  one  who  learning's  joys  hath  felt, 

And  at  the  Muse's  altar  knelt, 

Should  leave  a  life  of  sacred  leisure, 

To  taste  the  accumulating  pleasure  ; 

And  metamorphosed  to  an  alley  duck, 

Grovel  in  loads  of  kindred  muck. 

Oh !  'tis  beyond  my  comprehension  ! 

A  courtier  throwing  up  his  pension, — 

A  lawyer  working  without  a  fee, — 

A  parson  giving  charity, — 

A  truly  pious  methodist  preacher, — 

Are  not,  egad,  so  out  of  nature. 

Had  nature  made  thee  half  a  fool, 

But  given  thee  wit  to  keep  a  school, 

I  had  not  stared  at  thy  backsliding : 

But  when  thy  wit  I  can  confide  in, 

When  well  I  know  thy  just  pretence 

To  solid  and  exalted  sense  ; 

When  well  I  know  that  on  thy  head 

Philosophy  her  lights  hath  shed, 

I  stand  aghast !  thy  virtues  sum  too, 

And  wonder  what  this  world  will  come  to ! 
22* 


258  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Yet,  whence  this  strain  ?  shall  I  repine 
That  thou  alone  dost  singly  shine  ? 
Shall  I  lament  that  thou  alone, 
Of  men  of  parts,  hast  prudence  known  ? 


LINES 

ON    READING    THE    POEMS    OF    WARTON. 


AGE    FOURTEEN. 


OH,  Warton  !  to  thy  soothing  shell, 
Stretch'd  remote  in  hermit  cell, 
Where  the  brook  runs  babbling  by, 
For  ever  I  could  listening  lie  ; 
And  catching  all  the  Muse's  fire, 
Hold  converse  with  the  tuneful  quire. 

What  pleasing  themes  thy  page  adorn, 
The  ruddy  streaks  of  cheerful  morn, 
The  pastoral  pipe,  the  ode  sublime, 
And  Melancholy's  mournful  chime  ! 
Each  with  unwonted  graces  shines 
In  thy  ever-lovely  lines. 

Thy  Muse  deserves  the  lasting  meed  j 
Attuning  sweet  the  Dorian  reed, 
Now  the  love-lorn  swain  complains, 
And  sings  his  sorrows  to  the  plains  j 
Now  the  Sylvan  scenes  appear 


TO    THE    MUSE.  259 

Through  all  the  changes  of  the  year ; 
Or  the  elegiac  strain 
Softly  sings  of  mental  pain, 
And  mournful  diapasons  sail 
On  the  faintly-dying  gale. 

But,  ah  !  the  soothing  scene  is  o'er ! 

On  middle  flight  we  cease  to  soar, 
For  now  the  muse  assumes  a  bolder  sweep, 
Strikes  on  the  lyric  string  her  sorrows  deep, 

In  strains  unheard  before. 
Now,  now  the  rising  fire  thrills  high, 
Now,  now  to  heaven's  high  realms  we  fly, 

And  every  throne  explore  ; 
The  soul  entranced,  on  mighty  wings, 
With  all  the  poet's  heat,  up  springs, 

And  loses  earthly  woes ; 
Till  all  alarm'd  at  the  giddy  height, 
The  Muse  descends  on  gentler  flight, 

And  lulls  the  wearied  soul  to  soft  repose. 


TO   THE   MUSE. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OP  FOURTEEN. 
I. 

ILL-FATED  maid,  in  whose  unhappy  train 
Chill  poverty  and  misery  are  seen, 

Anguish  and  discontent,  the  unhappy  bane 
Of  life,  and  blackener  of  each  brighter  scene. 


260  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Why  to  thy  votaries  dost  thou  give  to  feel 
So  keenly  all  the  scorns — the  jeers  of  life  ? 
Why  not  endow  them  to  endure  the  strife 

With  apathy's  invulnerable  steel,         [to  heal  ? 

Of  self-content  and  ease,  each  torturing  wound 

II. 

Ah !  who  would  taste  your  self-deluding  joys, 
That  lure  the  unwary  to  a  wretched  doom, 

That  bid  fair  views  and  flattering  hopes  arise, 
Then  hurl  them  headlong  to  a  lasting  tomb  ? 

What  is  the  charm  which  leads  thy  victims  on 
To  persevere  in  paths  that  lead  to  wo  ? 
What  can  induce  them  in  that  rout  to  go, 

In  which  innumerous  before  have  gone, 

And  died  in  misery,  poor  and  wo-begone. 

III. 

Yet  can  I  ask  what  charms  in  thee  are  found ; 
I  who  have  drank  from  thine  ethereal  rill, 

And  tasted  all  the  pleasures  that  abound 
Upon  Parnassus'  loved  Aonian  hill  ?  [thrill ! 

I,  through  whose  soul  the  Muse's  strains  aye 
Oh  !  I  do  feel  the  spell  with  which  I'm  tied ; 

And  though  our  annals  fearful  stories  tell. 
How  Savage  languish'd,  and  how  Otway  died, 
Yet  must  I  persevere,  let  whate'er  will  betide. 


TO   LOVE.  26 1 


TO   LOVE. 


I. 


Why  should  I  blush  to  own  I  love  ? 
'Tis  love  that  rules  the  realms  above. 
Why  should  I  blush  to  say  to  all, 
That  Virue  holds  my  heart  in  thrall  ? 


II. 

Why  should  I  seek  the  thickest  shade, 
Lest  Love's  dear  secret  be  betray'd  ? 
Why  the  stern  brow  deceitful  move, 
When  I  am  languishing  with  love  ? 


III. 

Is  it  weakness  thus  to  dwell 
On  passion  that  I  dare  not  tell  ? 
Such  weakness  I  would  ever  prove ; 
'Tis  painful,  though  'tis  sweet,  to  love. 


S62  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


THE  WANDERING   BOY. 

A  SONG. 

I. 

WHEN  the  winter  wind  whistles  along  the  wild 

moor, 

And  the  cottager  shuts  on  the  beggar  his  door ; 
When  the  chilling  tear  stands  in  my  comfortless  eye, 
Oh,  bow  hard  is  the  lot  of  the  Wandering  Boy ! 

II. 

The  winter  is  cold,  and  I  have  no  vest, 
And  my  heart  it  is  cold  as  it  beats  in  my  breast ; 
No  father,  no  mother,  no  kindred  have  I, 
For  I  am  a  parentless  Wandering  Boy. 

III. 

Yet  I  had  a  home,  and  I  once  had  a  sire, 
A  mother  who  granted  each  infant  desire ; 
Our  cottage  it  stood  in  a  wood-embower'd  vale, 
Where  the  ring-dove  would  warble  its  sorrowful 
tale. 

IV. 

But  my  father  and  mother  were  summon'd  away, 
And  they  left  me  to  hard-hearted  strangers  a  prey ; 


FRAGMENT.  263 

I  fled  from  their  rigour  with  many  a  sigh, 
And  now  I'm  a  poor  little  Wandering  Boy. 

V. 

The  wind  it  is  keen,  and  the  snow  loads  the  gale, 
And  no  one  will  list  to  my  innocent  tale  ; 
I'll  go  to  the  grave  where  my  parents  both  lie, 
And  death  shall  befriend  the  poor  Wandering  Boy. 


FRAGMENT. 


The  western  gale, 


Mild  as  the  kisses  of  connubial  love, 

Plays  round  my  languid  limbs,  as  all  dissolved, 

Beneath  the  ancient  elm's  fantastic  shade 

I  lie,  exhausted  with  the  noontide  heat : 

While  rippling  o'er  his  deep-worn  pebble  bed, 

The  rapid  rivulet  rushes  at  my  feet, 

Dispensing  coolness. — On  the  fringed  marge 

Full  many  a  floweret  rears  its  head, — or  pink, 

Or  gaudy  daffodil. — 'Tis  here,  at  noon, 

The  buskin'd  wood-nymphs  from  the  heat  retire, 

And  lave  them  in  the  fountain  ;  here  secure 

From  Pan,  or  savage  satyr,  they  disport ; 

Or  stretch'd  supinely  on  the  velvet  turf, 

Lull'd  by  the  laden  bee,  or  sultry  fly, 

Invoke  the  God  of  slumber.     *      *     * 


264  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And,  hark !  how  merrily,  from  distant  tower, 
Ring  round  the  village  bells !  now  on  the  gale 
They  rise  with  gradual  swell,  distinct  and  loud ; 
Anon  they  die  upon  the  pensive  ear, 
Melting  in  faintest  music. — They  bespeak 
A  day  of  jubilee,  and  oft  they  bear, 
Commix'd  along  the  unfrequented  shore, 
The  sound  of  village  dance  and  tabor  loud, 
Startling  the  musing  ear  of  Solitude. 

Such  is  the  jocund  wake  of  Whitsuntide, 
When  happy  Superstition,  gabbling  eld  ! 
Holds  her  unhurtful  gambols. — All  the  day 
The  rustic  revellers  ply  the  mazy  dance 
On  the  smooth-shaven  green,  and  then  at  eve 
Commence  the  harmless  rites  and  auguries ; 
And  many  a  tale  of  ancient  days  goes  round. 
They  tell  of  wizard  seer,  whose  potent  spells 
Could  hold  in  dreadful  thrall  the  labouring  moon, 
Or  draw  the  fix'd  stars  from  their  eminence, 
And  still  the  midnight  tempest. — Then  anon 
Tell  of  uncharnell'd  spectres,  seen  to  glide 
Along  the  lone  wood's  unfrequented  path, 
Startling  the  'nighted  traveller ;  while  the  sound 
Of  undistinguish'd  murmurs,  heard  to  come 
From  the  dark  centre  of  the  deep'nirig  glen, 
Struck  on  his  frozen  ear. 

Oh,  Ignorance  ! 
Thou  art  fall'n  man's  best  friend  !  With  thee  he 


In  frigid  apathy  along  his  way, 


FRAGMENT.  265 

And  never  does  the  tear  of  agony 

Burn  down  his  scorching  cheek ;  or  the  keen  steel 

Of  wounded  feeling  penetrate  his  breast. 

Even  now,  as  leaning  on  this  fragrant  bank,          , 
I  taste  of  all  the  keener  happiness 
Which  sense  refined  affords — Even  now,  my  heart 
Would  fain  induce  me  to  forsake  the  world, 
Throw    off   these    garments,  and  in  shepherd's 

weeds, 

With  a  small  flock,  and  short  suspended  reed, 
To  sojourn  in  the  woodland. — Then  my  thought 
Draws  such  gay  pictures  of  ideal  bliss, 
That  I  could  almost  err  in  reason's  spite, 
And  trespass  on  my  judgment. 

Such  is  life ; 

The  distant  prospect  always  seems  more  fair, 
And  when  attain'd,  another  still  succeeds, 
Far  fairer  than  before, — yet  compass'd  round 
With  the  same  dangers,  and  the  same  dismay. 
And  we  poor  pilgrims  in  this  dreary  maze, 
Still  discontented,  chase  the  fairy  form 
Of  unsubstantial  Happiness,  to  find, 
When  life  itself  is  sinking  in  the  strife, 
'Tis  but  an  airy  bubble  and  a  cheat. 


23 


266  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


ODE, 

WRITTEN    ON    WHIT-MONDAY. 

HARK  !  how  the  merry  bells  ring  jocund  round, 
And  now  they  die  upon  the  veering  breeze ; 

Anon  they  thunder  loud 

Full  on  the  musing  ear. 

Wafted  in  varying  cadence,  by  the  shore 
Of  the  still  twinkling  river,  they  bespeak 

A  day  of  Jubilee, 

An  ancient  holiday. 

And,  lo  !  the  rural  revels  are  begun, 
And  gaily  echoing  to  the  laughing  sky, 
On  the  smooth-shaven  green, 
Resounds  the  voice  of  Mirth. 

Alas !  regardless  of  the  tongue  of  Fate, 
That  tells  them  'tis  but  as  an  hour  since  they 
Who  now  are  in  their  graves, 
Kept  up  the  Whitsun  dance. 

And  that  another  hour,  and  they  must  fall 
Like  those  who  went  before,  and  sleep  as  still 
Beneath  the  silent  sod, 
A  cold  and  cheerless  sleep. 


CANZONET.  267 

Yet  why  should  thoughts  like  these  intrude  to  scare 
The  vagrant  Happiness,  when  she  will  deign 

To  smite  upon  us  here, 

A  transient  visitor  ? 

Mortals  !  be  gladsome  while  ye  have  the  power, 
And  laugh  and  seize  the  glittering  lapse  of  joy ; 
In  time  the  bell  will  toll 
That  warns  ye  to  your  graves. 

I  to  the  woodland  solitude  will  bend  [shout 

My  lonesome  way — where  Mirth's  obstreperous 

Shall  not  intrude  to  break 

The  meditative  hour. 

There  will  I  ponder  on  the  state  of  man, 
Joyless  and  sad  of  heart,  and  consecrate 

This  day  of  jubilee 

To  sad  reflection's  shrine  : 

And  I  will  cast  my  fond  eye  far  beyond 
This  world  of  care,  to  where  the  steeple  loud 
Shall  rock  above  the  sod, 
Where  I  shall  sleep  in  peace. 


CANZONET. 

I. 

MAIDEN  !  wrap  thy  mantle  round  thee, 
Cold  the  ram  beats  on  thy  breast : 

Why  should  Horror's  voice  astound  thee  ? 
Death  can  bid  the  wretched  rest ! 


268  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

All  under  the  tree 
Thy  bed  may  be, 
And  thou  may'st  slumber  peacefully. 

II. 

Maiden  !  once  gay  Pleasure  knew  thee ; 

Now  thy  cheeks  are  pale  and  deep  : 
Love  has  been  a  felon  to  thee, 
Yet,  poor  maiden,  do  not  weep : 
There's  rest  for  thee 
All  under  the  tree, 
Where  thou  wilt  sleep  most  peacefully. 


COMMENCEMENT    OP   A   FOEM 

ON  DESPAIR. 

SOME  to  Aonian  lyres  of  silver  sound 
With  winning  elegance  attune  their  song, 
Form'd  to  sink  lightly  on  the  soothed  sense, 
And  charm  the  soul  with  softest  harmony : 
'Tis  then  that  Hope  with  sanguine  eye  is  seen 
Roving  through  Fancy's  gay  futurity ; 
Her  heart  light  dancing  to  the  sounds  of  pleasure, 
Pleasure  of  days  to  come. — Memory,  too,  then 
Comes  with  her  sister,  Melancholy  sad, 
Pensively  musing  on  the  scenes  of  youth, 
Scenes  never  to  return.* 

*  Alluding  to  the  two  pleasing  poems,  the  Pleasures  of 
Hope  and  or  Memory. 


ON    DESPAIR.  269 

Such  subjects  merit  poets  used  to  raise 

The  attic  verse  harmonious ;  but  for  me 

A  dreadlier  theme  demands  my  backward  hand 

And  bids  me  strike  the  strings  of  dissonance 

With  frantic  energy. 

'Tis  wan  Despair  I  sing ;  if  sing  1  can 

Of  him  before  whose  blast  the  voice  of  Song, 

And  Mirth,  and  Hope,  and  Happiness  all  fly, 

Nor  ever  dare  return.     His  notes  are  heard 

At  noon  of  night,  where  on  the  coast  of  blood, 

The  lacerated  son  of  Angola 

Howls  forth  his  sufferings  to  the  moaning  wind , 

And,  when  the  awful  silence  of  the  night 

Strikes  the  chill  death-dew  to  the  murderer's  heatf 

He  speaks  in  every  conscience-prompted  word 

Half  utter 'd,  half  suppress'd — 

'Tis  him  I  sing — Despair — terrific  name, 

Striking  unsteadily  the  tremulous  chord 

Of  timorous  terror — discord  in  the  sound : 

For  to  a  theme  revolting  as  is  this, 

Dare  not  I  woo  the  maids  of  harmony, 

Who  love  to  sit  and  catch  the  soothing  sound 

Of  lyre  ^Eqlian,  or  the  martial  bugle, 

Calling  the  hero  to  the  field  of  glory, 

And  firing  him  with  deeds  of  high  emprise, 

And  warlike  triumph :  but  from  scenes  like  mint 

Shrink  they  affrighted,  and  detest  the  bard 

Who  dares  to  sound  the  hollow  tones  of  horror. 

Hence,  then,  soft  maids, 
And  woo  the  silken  zephyr  in  the  bowers 
By  Heliconia's  sleep-inviting  stream : 
For  aid  like  yours  I  seek  not ;  'tis  for  powers 
23* 


270  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Of  darker  hue  to  inspire  a  verse  like  mine  ! 
'Tis  work  for  wizards,  sorcerers,  and  fiends ! 

Hither,  ye  furious  imps  of  Acheron, 
Nurslings  of  hell,  and  beings  shunning  light, 
And  all  the  myriads  of  the  burning  concave  ; 
Souls  of  the  damned ; — Hither,  oh  !  come  and  join 
The  infernal  chorus.     'Tis  Despair  I  sing ! 
He,  whose  sole  tooth  inflicts  a  deadlier  pang 
Than  all  your  tortures  join'd.     Sing,  sing  Despair ! 
Repeat  the  sound,  and  celebrate  his  power : 
Unite  shouts,  screams,  and  agonizing  shrieks, 
Till  the  loud  paean  ring  through  hell's  high  vault, 
And  the  remotest  spirits  of  the  deep 
Leap  from  the  lake,  and  join  the  dreadful  song. 


TO  THE   WIND, 

AT     MIDNIGHT. 

NOT  unfamiliar  to  mine  ear, 

Blasts  of  the  night !  ye  howl  as  now 

My  shuddering  casement  loud 
With  fitful  force  ye  beat. 

Mine  ear  has  dwelt  in  silent  awe, 
The  howling  sweep,  the  sudden  rush ; 
And  when  the  passing  gale 
Pour'd  deep  the  hollow  dirge. 


TO    THE    WIND.  271 

Once  more  I  listen ;  sadly  communing 
Within  me, — once  more  mark,  storm-clothed, 

The  moon  as  the  dark  cloud 

Glides  rapidly  away. 

I,  deeming  that  the  voice  of  spirits  dwells 
In  these  mysterious  moans,  in  solemn  thought 

Muse  in  the  choral  dance, 

The  dead  man's  Jubilee. 

Hark  !  how  the  spirit  knocks, — how  loud — 
Even  at  my  window  knocks, — again : — 

I  cannot — dare  not  sleep, — 

It  is  a  boisterous  night. 

I  would  not,  at  this  moment,  be 
In  the  drear  forest-groves,  to  hear 

This  uproar  and  rude  song 

Ring  o'er  the  arched  aisles. 

The  ear  doth  shudder  at  such  sounds 
As  the  embodied  winds,  in  their  disport, 

Wake  in  the  hollow  woods, 

When  man  is  gone  to  sleep. 

There  have  been  heard  unchristian  shrieks, 
And  rude  distemper'd  merriment, 

As  though  the  autumnal  woods 

Were  all  in  morrice-dance. 

There's  mystery  in  these  sounds,  and  I 
Love  not  to  have  the  grave  disturb'd ; 


272  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  dismal  trains  arise 
From  the  unpeopled  tombs. 

Spirits,  I  pray  ye,  let  them  sleep 
Peaceful  in  their  cold  graves,  nor  waft 
The  sear  and  whispering  leaf 
From  the  inhumed  breast. 


SONNET. 

TO    DECEMBER. 

DARK-visaged  visitor  !  who  comest  here 

Clad  in  thy  mournful  tunic,  to  repeat         [feet) 
(While  glooms  and  chilling  rains  enwrap  thy 

The  solemn  requiem  of  the  dying  year ; 

Not  undelightful  to  my  list'ning  ear  [seat, 

Sound  thy  dull  showers,  as  o'er  my  woodland 
Dismal,  and  drear,  the  leafless  trees  they  beat : 

Not  undelightful,  in  their  wild  career, 

Is  the  wild  music  of  thy  howling  blasts,      [Time 
Sweeping  the  groves'  long  aisle,  while  sullen 

Thy  stormy  mantle  o'er  his  shoulder  casts, 

And,  rock'd  upon  his  throne,  with  chant  sublime, 

Joins  the  full-pealing  dirge,  and  winter  weaves 

Her  dark  sepulchral  wreath  of  faded  leaves. 


THE    FAIR    MAID    OF    CLIFTON.  273 

THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  CLIFTON. 

A  NEW  BALLAD  IN  THE  OLD  STYLE. 

THE  night  it  was  dark,  and  the  winds  were  high, 

And  mournfully  waved  the  wood, 
As  Bateman  met  his  Margaret 

By  Trent's  majestic  flood. 

He  press'd  the  maiden  to  his  breast, 
And  his  heart  it  was  rack'd  with  fear, 

For  he  knew,  that  again,  't  was  a  deadly  chance 
If  ever  he  press'd  her  there. 

"  Oh !  Margaret,  wilt  thou  bear  me  true," 

He  said,  "  while  I  am  far  away, 
For  to-morrow  I  go  to  a  foreign  land, 

And  there  I  have  long  to  stay." 

And  the  maid  she  vow'd  she  would  bear  him  true, 
And  thereto  she  plighted  her  troth ; 

And  she  pray'd  the  fiend  might  fetch  her  away, 
When  she  forgot  her  oath. 

And  the  night-owl  scream'd,  as  again  she  swore, 
And  the  grove  it  did  mournfully  moan, 

And  Bateman's  heart  within  him  sunk, 
He  thought  't  was  his  dying  groan. 

And  shortly  he  went  with  Clifton,  his  Lord, 
To  abide  in  a  foreign  land ; 


274  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  Margaret  she  forgot  her  oath, 
And  she  gave  to  another  her  hand. 

Her  husband  was  rich,  but  old,  and  crabb'd, 

And  oft  the  false  one  sigh'd, 
And  wish'd  that  ere  she  broke  her  vow, 

She  had  broken  her  heart,  and  died. 

And  now  return'd,  her  Bateman  came 

To  demand  his  betrothed  bride ; 
But  soon  he  learn'd  that  she  had  sought 

A  wealthier  lover's  side. 

And  when  he  heard  the  dreadful  news, 

No  sound  he  utter'd  more, 
But  his  stiffen'd  corse,  ere  the  morn,  was  seen 

Hung  at  his  false  one's  door. 

And  Margaret,  all  night,  in  her  bed, 

She  dreamed  hideous  dreams ; 
And  oft  upon  the  moaning  wind 

Were  heard  her  frightful  screams. 

And  when  she  knew  of  her  lover's  death, 

On  her  brow  stood  the  clammy  dew,          [fate, 

She  thought  of  her  oath,  and  she  thought  of  her 
And  she  saw  that  her  days  were  few. 

But  the  Lord  He  is  just,  and  the  guilty  alone 
Have  to  fear  of  his  vengeance  the  lash, 

The  thunderbolt  harms  not  the  innocent  head, 
While  the  criminal  dies  'neath  the  flash. 


THE    FAIR    MAID    OF    CLIFTON.  275 

His  justice,  she  knew,  would  spare  her  awhile 
For  the  child  that  she  bare  in  her  womb ; 

But  she  felt,  that  when  it  was  born  therefrom 
She  must  instantly  go  to  her  tomb. 

The  hour  approach'd,  and  she  view'd  it  with  fear 

As  the  date  of  her  earthly  time  ; 
And  she  tried  to  pray  to  Almighty  God, 

To  expiate  her  crime. 

And  shebegg'd  her  relations  would  come  at  the  day, 
And  the  parson  would  pray  at  her  side ; 

And  the  clerk  would  sing  a  penitent  hymn, 
With  all  the  singers  beside. 

And  she  begg'd  they  would  bar  the  windows  so 
strong, 

And  put  a  new  lock  to  the  door ; 
And  sprinkle  with  holy  water  the  house, 

And  over  her  chamber-floor. 

And  they  barr'd  with  iron  the  windows  so  strong, 
And  they  put  a  new  lock  on  the  door ; 

And  the  parson  he  came,  and  he  carefully  strew'd 
With  holy  water  the  floor. 

And  her  kindred  came  to  see  the  dame, 
And  the  clerk,  and  the  singers  beside ; 

And  they  did  sing  a  penitent  hymn, 
And  with  her  did  abide. 

And  midnight  came,  and  shortly  the  dame 
Did  give  to  her  child  the  light ; 


276  H.    K.    WHITE  S    POEMS. 

And  then  she  did  pray,  that  they  would  stay, 
And  pass  with  her  the  night. 

And  she  begg'd  they  would  sing  the  penitent  hymn, 

And  pray  with  all  their  might ; 
For  sadly  I  fear,  the  fiend  will  be  here, 

And  fetch  me  away  this  night. 

And  now  without,  a  stormy  rout, 

With  howls,  the  guests  did  hear ; 
And  the  parson  he  pray'd,  for  he  was  afraid 

And  the  singers  they  quaver'd  with  fear. 

And  Marg'ret  pray'd  the  Almighty's  aid, 

For  louder  the  tempest  grew  ; 
And  every  guest,  his  soul  he  bless'd, 

As  the  tapers  burned  blue. 

And  the  fair  again,  she  pray'd  of  the  men 

To  sing  with  all  their  might ; 
And  they  did  sing,  till  the  house  did  ring, 

And  louder  they  sung  for  affright. 

But  now  their  song,  it  died  on  their  tongue, 
For  sleep  it  was  seizing  their  sense ; 

And  Marg'ret  scream'd,  and  bid  them  not  sleep, 
Or  the  fiends  would  bear  her  thence. 


THE    ROBIN    RED-BREAST.  277 


SONG. 

THE     ROBIN     RED-BREAST.         A     VERY     EARLY 
COMPOSITION. 

WHEN  the  winter  wind  whistles  around  my  lone 

cot, 

And  my  holiday  friends  have  my  mansion  forgot, 
Though  a  lonely  poor  being,  still  do  not  I  pine, 
While  my  poor  Robin  Red-breast  forsakes  not  my 

shrine. 

He  comes  with  the  morning,  he  hops  on  my  arm, 
For  he  knows  't  is  too  gentle  to  do  him  a  harm : 
And  in  gratitude  ever  beguiles  with  a  lay 
The  soul-sick'ning  thoughts  of  a  bleak  winter's  day. 

What,  though  he   may  leave   me,  when  spring 

again  smiles, 

To  waste  the  sweet  summer  in  love's  little  wiles, 
Yet  will  he  remember  his  fosterer  long, 
And  greet  her  each  morning  with  one  little  song. 

And  when  the  rude  blast  shall  again  strip  the  trees, 
And  plenty  no  longer  shall  fly  on  the  breeze, 
Oh !  then  he  '11  return  to  his  Helena  kind,  [wind. 
And  repose  in  her  breast  from  the  rude  northern 

My  sweet  little  Robin's  no  holiday  guest, 
He  '11  never  forget  his  poor  Helena's  breast ; 
But  will  strive  to  repay,  by  his  generous  song, 
Her  love,  and  her  cares,  in  the  winter  day  long. 
24 


278  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


WINTER    SONG. 

ROUSE  the  blazing  midnight  fire, 
Heap  the  crackling  fagots  higher  5 
Stern  December  reigns  without, 
With  old  Winter's  blust'ring  rout. 

Let  the  jocund  timbrels  sound, 
Push  the  jolly  goblet  round  ; 
Care  avaunt,  with  all  thy  crew, 
Goblins  dire,  and  devils  blue. 

Hark  !  without  the  tempest  growls  : 
And  the  affrighted  watch-dog  howls, 
Witches  on  their  broomsticks  sail. 
Death  upon  the  whistling  gale. 

Heap  the  crackling  fagots  higher, 
Draw  your  easy  chairs  still  nigher ; 
And  to  guard  from  wizards  hoar, 
Nail  the  horse-shoe  on  the  door. 

Now  repeat  the  freezing  story, 
Of  the  murder'd  traveller  gory, 
Found  beneath  the  yew-tree  sear, 
Cut,  his  throat,  from  ear  to  ear. 

Tell,  too,  how  his  ghost,  all  bloody, 
Frighten'd  once  a  neighb'ring  goody; 
And  how,  still  at  twelve  he  stalks, 
Groaning  o'er  the  wild-wood  walks. 


279 


Then,  when  fear  usurps  her  sway, 
Let  us  creep  to  bed  away  ; 
Each  for  ghosts,  but  little  bolder, 
Fearfully  peeping  o'er  his  shoulder. 


SONG.     • 

SWEET  Jessy  !  I  would  fain  caress 
That  lovely  cheek  divine  ; 

Sweet  Jessy,  I'd  give  worlds  to  press 
That  rising  breast  to  mine. 

Sweet  Jessy  !  I  with  passion  burn 
Thy  soft  blue  eyes  to  see  ; 

Sweet  Jessy,  I  would  die  to  turn 
Those  melting  eyes  on  me. 

Yet,  Jessy,  lovely  as  *  *  * 
Thy  form  and  face  appear, 

I  'd  perish  ere  I  would  consent 
To  buy  them  with  a  tear. 


SONG. 

OH,  that  I  were  the  fragrant  flower  that  kisses 
My  Arabella's  breast  that  heaves  on  high ; 

Pleased  should  I  be  to  taste  the  transient  blisses, 
And  on  the  melting  throne  to  faint,  and  die. 


280  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Oh,  that  I  were  the  robe  that  loosely  covers 
Her  taper  limbs,  and  Grecian  form  divine ; 

Or  the  entvvisted  zones,  like  meeting  lovers, 
That  clasp  her  waist  in  many  an  aery  twine 

Oh,  that  my  soul  might  take  its  lasting  station 
In  her  waved  hair,  her  perfumed  breath  to  sip ; 

Or  catch,  by  chance,  her  blue  eyes'  fascination ! 
Or  meet,  by  stealth,  her  soft  vermillion  lip. 

But  chain'd  to  this  dull  being,  I  must  ever 

Lament  the  doom  by  which  I'm  hither  placed ; 

Must  pant  for  moments  I  must  meet  with  never, 
And  dream  of  beauties  I  must  never  taste. 


ON   RURAL   SOLITUDE. 

WHEN  wandering,  thoughtful,  my  stray  steps  at  eve 

(Released  from  toil  and  careless  of  their  way,) 

Have  reach'd,  unwittingly,  some  rural  spot 

Where  Quiet  dwells  in  cluster'd  cottages, 

Fast  by  a  wood,  or  on  the  river's  marge, 

I  have  sat  down  upon  the  shady  stile, 

Half  wearied  with  the  long  and  lonesome  walk, 

And  felt  strange  sadness  steal  upon  the  heart, 

And  unaccountable. — The  rural  smells 

And  sounds  speak  all  of  peacefulness  and  home ; 

The  lazy  mastiff,  who  my  coming  eyed, 

Half  balancing  'twixt  fondness  and  distrust, 


A    FRAGMENT.  281 

Recall'd  some  images,  now  half  forgot, 

Of  the  warm  hearth  at  eve,  when  flocks  are  penn'd 

And  cattle  housed,  and  every  labor  done. 

And  as  the  twilight's  peaceful  hour  closed  in, 

The  spiral  smoke  ascending  from  the  thatch, 

And  the  eve  sparrow's  last  retiring  chirp, 

Have  brought  a  busy  train  of  hov'ring  thoughts 

To  recollection, — rural  offices, 

In  younger  days  and  happier  times  perform'd ; 

And  rural  friends,  now  with  their  grave-stones 

carved, 

And  tales  which  wore  away  the  winter's  night 
Yet  fresh  in  memory. — Then  my  thoughts  assume 
A  different  turn,  and  I  am  e'en  at  home. 
That  hut  is  mine  ;  that  cottage  half-embower'd 
With  modest  jessamine,  and  that  sweet  spot 
Of  garden-ground,  where,  ranged  in  meet  array, 
Grow  countless  sweets,  the  wall-flower  and  the  pink 
And  the  thick  thyme-bush — even  that  is  mine  : 
And  that  old  mulberry  that  shades  the  court, 
Has  been  my  joy  from  very  childhood  up. 


IN  hollow  music  sighing  through  the  glade, 
The  breeze  of  autumn  strikes  the  startled  ear, 

And  fancy,  pacing  through  the  woodland  shade, 
Hears  in  the  gust  the  requiem  of  the  year. 

As  with  lone  tread  along  the  whisp'ring  grove 
I  list  the  moan  of  the  capricious  wind, 
24* 


282  H.    K.    WHITE  S    POEMS. 

I,  too,  o'er  fancy's  milky-way  would  rove, 
But  sadness  chains  to  earth  my  pensive  mind. 

When  by  the  huddling  brooklet's  secret  brim 
I  pause,  and  woo  the  dreams  of  Helicon, 

Sudden  my  saddest  thoughts  revert  to  him  [gone. 
Who  taught  that  brook  to  wind,  and  now  is 

When  by  the  poets'  sacred  urns  I  kneel, 
And  rapture  springs  exultant  to  my  reed, 

The  paean  dies,  and  sadder  measures  steal, 
And  grief  and  Montague  demand  the  meed. 


THOU  mongrel,  who  dost  show  thy  teeth,  and  yelp> 

And  bay  the  harmless  stranger  on  his  way, 
Yet,  when  the  wolf  appears,  dost  roar  for  help, 

And  scamperest  quickly  from  the  bloody  fray  ; 
Dare  but  on  my  fair  fame  to  cast  a.  slur, 

And  I  will  make  thee  know,  unto  thy  pain, 
Thou  vile  old  good-for-nothing  cur  ! 

I,  a  Laconian  dog,  can  bite  again : 
Yes,  I  can  make  the  Daunian  tiger  flee,        [thee. 
Much  more  a  bragging,  foul-mouth'd  whelp  like 
Beware  Lycambes',  or  Bupalus'  fate — 
The  wicked  still  shall  meet  my  deadly  hate ; 
And  know,  when  once  I  seize  upon  my  prey, 

I  do  not  languidly  my  wrongs  bemoan ; 
I  do  not  whine  and  cant  the  time  away,      [bone. 

But,  with  revengeful  gripe,  I  bite  him  to  the 


TO    THE    MORNING    STAR.  283 

ODE. 

TO    THE    MORNING    STAR. 

MANY  invoke  pale  Hesper's  pensive  sway, 
When  rest  supine  leans  o'er  the  pillowing  clouds, 

And  the  last  tinklings  come 

From  the  safe  folded  flock. 

But  me,  bright  harbinger  of  coming  day, 
Who  shone  the  first  on  the  primeval  mom : 

Me,  thou  delightest  more — 

Chastely  luxuriant. 

Let  the  poor  silken  sons  of  slothful  pride 
Press  now  their  downy  couch  in  languid  ease, 

While  visions  of  dismay 

Flit  o'er  their  troubled  brain. 

Be  mine  to  view,  awake  to  nature's  charms, 
Thy  paly  flame  evanish  from  the  sky, 

As  gradual  day  usurps 

The  welkin's  glowing  bounds. 

Mine,  to  snuff  up  the  pure  ambrozial  breeze, 
Which  bears  aloft  the  rose-bound  car  of  morn, 

And  mark  his  early  flight 

The  rustling  skylark  wing. 

And  thou,  Hygeia,  shalt  my  steps  attend, 
Thou,  whom  distracted,  I  so  lately  woo'd, 


284  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

As  on  my  restless  bed 
Slow  past  the  tedious  night ; 

And  slowly,  by  the  taper's  sickly  gleam, 
Drew  my  dull  curtain ;  and  with  anxious  eye 

Strove  through  the  veil  of  night 

To  mark  the  tardy  morn. 

Thou,  Health,  shall  bless  me  in  my  early  walk, 
As  o'er  the  upland  slope  I  brush  the  dew, 

And  feel  the  genial  thrill 

Dance  in  my  lighten'd  veins. 

And  as  I  mark  the  Cotter  from  his  shed 

Peep  out  with  jocund  face — thou,  too,  Content, 

Shalt  steal  into  my  breast, 

Thy  mild,  thy  placid  sway. 

Star  of  the  morning  !  these,  thy  joys,  I'll  share, 
As  rove  my  pilgrim  feet  the  sylvan  haunts  ; 

While  to  thy  blushing  shrine 

Due  orisons  shall  rise. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  PACIFIC; 

OR,    THE    HORRORS    OP    UTTER    SOLITUDE. 

OH  !  who  can  paint  the  unspeakable  dismay 
Of  utter  Solitude,  shut  out  from  all 
Of  social  intercourse. — Oh  !  who  can  say 
What  haggard  horrors  hold  in  shuddering  thral 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    PACIFIC.  285 

Him,  who  by  some  Carvaggian  waterfall 
A  shipwreck'd  man  hath  scoop'd  his  desert  cave, 
Where  Desolation,  in  her  giant  pall, 
Sits  frowning  on  the  ever-falling  wave, 
That  wooes  the  wretch  to  dig,  by  her  loud  shore, 
his  grave. 

Thou  youthful  pilgrim,  whose  untoward  feet 
Too  early  hath  been  torn  in  life's  rough  way, 
Thou,  who  endow'd  with  Fancy's  holiest  heat, 
Seest  dark  Misfortune  cloud  thy  morning  ray: 
Though  doom'd  in  penury  to  pine  thy  day, 
O  seek  not, — seek  not  in  the  glooms  to  shroud 
Of  waste,  or  wilderness — a  cast-away — 
Where  noise  intrudes  not,save  when  in  the  cloud, 
Riding  sublime,  the  slorm  roars  fearfully,  and  loud. 

Though  man  to  man  be  as  the  ocean  shark, 
Reckless,  and  unrelentingly  severe  ;          [dark, 
Though  friendship's  cloak  must  veil  the  purpose 
While  the  red  poinard  glimmers  in  the  rear, 
Yet,  is  society  most  passing  dear.  [refined 

Though  mix'd  with  clouds,  its  sunshine  gleams 
Will  through  the  glooms  most  pleasantly  appear, 
And  soothe  thee,  when  thy  melancholy  mind 
Must  ask  for  comfort  else  of  the  loud  pitiless  wind. 

Yet  is  it  distant  from  the  Muse's  theme 
To  bid  thee  fly  the  rural  covert  still, 
And  plunge  impetuous  in  the  busy  stream, 
Of  crowds  to  take  of  *  *  joys  thy  fill. 
Ah !  no.  she  wooes  thee  to  attune  thy  quill 


286  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

In  some  low  village's  remote  recess, 
Where  thou  may'st  learn — 0  enviable  skill, — 
To  heal  the  sick,  and  soothe  the  comfortless, 
To  give,  and  to  receive — be  blessed,  and  to  bless. 

God  unto  men  hath  different  powers  assign'd — 
There  be,  who  love  the  city's  dull  turmoil ; 
There  be,  who,  proud  of  an  ambitious  mind, 
From  lonely  Quiet's  hermit-walks  recoil: 
Leave  thou  these  insects  to  their  grov'lling  toil — 
Thou,  whom  retired  leisure  best  can  please  ; 
For  thee,  the  hazle  copse's  verdant  aisle, 
And  summer  bower,  befitting  studious  ease, 
Prepare  a  keener  bliss  than  they  shall  ever  seize. 

Lo,  the  grey  morning  climbs  the  eastern  tower, 
The  dew-drop  glistening  in  her  op'ning  eye; 
Now  on  the  upland  lawn  salute  the  hour 
That  wakes  the  warbling  woods  to  melody ; 
There  sauntering  on  the  stile,  embower'd  high 
With  fragrant  hawthorn,  and  the  gadding  brier, 
Pore  on  thy  book,  or  cast  by  fits  thine  eye 
Where  far  below,  hill,  dale,  and  village  spire, 
And  brook,  and  mead,  and  wood,  far  from  the  sight 
retire. 

But  what  are  these,  forsaken  and  forlorn  ? 
'Tis  animation  breathes  the  subtle  spell — 
Hark  !  from  the  echoing  wood  the  mellow  horn 
Winds  round  from  hill  to  hill,  with  distant  swell 
The  peasant's  matin  rises  from  the  dell ; 
The  heavy  wagon  creaks  upon  its  way, 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    PACIFIC.  287 

While  tinkling  soft  the  silver-tuning  bell 
Floats  on  the  gale,  or  dies  by  fits  away 
From  the  sweet  straw-roof  d  grange,  deep  buried 
from  the  day. 

Man  was  not  made  to  pine  in  solitude, 
Ensepulchred,  and  far  from  converse  placed, 
Not  for  himself  alone,  untamed  and  rude, 
To  live  the  Bittern  of  the  desert  waste ; 
It  is  not  his  (by  manlier  virtues  graced) 
To  pore  upon  the  noontide  brook,  and  sigh, 
And  weep  for  aye  o'er  sorrow  uneffaced ; 
Him  social  duties  call  tne  tear  to  dry, 
And  wake  the  nobler  powers  of  usefulness  to  ply. 

The  savage  broods  that  in  the  forest  shroud, 
The  Pard  and  Lion  mingle  with  their  kind ; 
And,  oh,  shall  man,  with  nobler  powers  endow'd 
Shall  he,  to  nature's  strongest  impulse  blind, 
Bury  in  shades  his  proud  immortal  mind  ? 
Like  the  sweet  flower,  that  on  some  steep  rock 

thrown, 

Blossoms  forlorn,  rock'd  by  the  mountain  wind ; 
A  little  while  it  decks  the  rugged  stone, 
Then,  withering,  fades  away,  unnoticed  and  un- 
known ! 

For  ye  who,  fill'd  with  fancy's  wildest  dreams, 
Run  from  the  imperious  voice  of  human  pride, 
And  shrinking  quick  from  woe's  unheeded 

screams, 
Long  in  some  desert-cell  your  heads  to  hide, 


288  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Where  you  may  muse  from  morn  to  eventide, 
Free  from  the  taunts  of  contumely  and  scorn, 
From  sights  of  woe — the  power  to  soothe  denied, 
Attend  the  song  which  in  life's  early  morn — 


ELEGY 

Occasioned  by  the  death  of  Mr.  Gill,  who  was 

drowned  in  the  river  Trent,  while  bathing,  9th 

•August,  1802. 

HE  sunk — the  impetuous  river  roll'd  along, 
The  sullen  wave  betray'd  his  dying  breath ; 

And  rising  sad  the  rustling  sedge  among, 

The  gale  of  eve.ning  touch'd  the  chords  of  death. 

Nymph  of  the  Trent !  why  didst  not  thou  appear, 

.  To  snatch  the  victim  from  thy  felon  wave  ? 

Alas  !  too  late  thou  earnest  to  embalm  his  bier, 

And  deck  with  water-flags  his  early  grave. 

Triumphant,  riding  o'er  its  tumid  prey, 
Rolls  the  red  stream  in  sanguinary  pride ; 

While  anxious  crowds,  in  vain,  expectant  stay, 
And  ask  the  swoln  corse  from  the  murdering 
tide. 

The  stealing  tear-drop  stagnates  in  the  eye, 
The  sudden  sigh  by  friendship's  bosom  proved, 


EXTEMPORANEOUS    VERSES.  289 

I  mark  them  rise — I  mark  the  gen'ral  sigh ; 
Unhappy  youth  !  and  wert  thou  so  beloved? 

On  thee,  as  lone  I  trace  Ihe  Trent's  green  brink, 
When  the  dim  twilight  slumbers  on  the  glade, 

On  thee  my  thoughts  shall  dwell,  nor  Fancy  shrink 
To  hold  mysterious  converse  with  thy  shade. 

Of  thee,  as  early  I,  with  vagrant  feet, 

Hail  the  grey-sandal'd  morn  in  Colwick's  vale, 

Of  thee  my  sylvan  reed  shall  warble  sweet, 
And  wild-wood  echoes  shall  repeat  the  tale. 

And  oh  !  ye  nymphs  of  Paeon  !  who  preside 
O'er  running  rill  and  salutary  stream, 

Guard  ye  in  future  well  the  halcyon  tide  [scream. 
From  the   rude   death-shriek,  and  the   dying 


EXTEMPORANEOUS  VERSES. 


These  lines  were  composed  extempore  soon  after  the  publication 
of  "  Clifton  Grove,"  in  the  presence  of  an  acquaintance  who 
doubted  the  author's  ability  to  write  poetry. 


THOU  base  repiner  at  another's  joy, 

Whose  eye  turns  green  at  merit  not  thine  own, 
Oh,  far  away  from  generous  Britons  fly, 
And  find  in  meaner  climes  a  fitter  throne. 
Away,  away ;  it  shall  not  be, 
25 


290  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Thou  sha\t  not  dare  defile  our  plains ; 
The  truly  generous  heart  disdains 
Thy  meaner,  lowlier  fires,  while  he 
Joys  at  another's  joy,  and  smiles  at  others'  jollity. 

Triumphant  monster!  though  thy  schemes  succeed; 

Schemes  laid  in  Acheron,  the  brood  of  night, 
Yet,  but  a  little  while,  and  nobly  freed, 

Thy  happy  victim  will  emerge  to  light ; 
When  o'er  his  head  in  silence  that  reposes, 

Some  kindred  soul  shall  come  to  drop  a  tear ; 
Then  will  his  last  cold  pillow  turn  to  roses, 

Which  thou  hadst  planted  with  the  thorn  severe ; 
Then  will  thy  baseness  stand  confest,  and  all  [fall. 
Will  curse  the  ungen'rous  fate,  that  bade  a  Poet 


Yet,  ah  !  thy  arrows  are  too  keen,  too  sure : 

Couldst  thou  not  pitch  upon  another  prey  ? 
Alas  !  in  robbing  him  thou  robb'st  the  poor, 

Who  only  boast  what  thou  wouldst  take  away. 
See  the  lorn  Bard  at  midnight-study  sitting, 

O'er  his  pale  features  streams  his  dying  lamp ; 
While  o'er  fond  Fancy's  pale  perspective  flitting, 

Successive  forms  their  fleet  ideas  stamp. 
Yet  say,  is  bliss  upon  his  brow  imprest?       [live ? 

Does  jocund  Health  in  thought's  still  mansion 
Lo,  the  cold  dews  that  on  his  temples  rest, 

That  short  quick  sigh — their  sad  responses  give. 

And  canst  thou  rob  a  Poet  of  his  song  ? 

Snatch  from  the  bard  his  trivial  meed  of  praise  ? 


TO    POESY.  291 

Small  are  his  gains,  nor  does  he  hold  them  long : 
Then  leave,  oh,  leave  him  to  enjoy  his  lays 

While  yet  he  lives — for,  to  his  merits  just, 
Though  future  ages  join,  his  fame  to  raise, 

Will  the  loud  trump  a  wake  hiscold  unheedingdust? 


TO   POESY. 

ADDRESSED  TO  CAPEL  LOFPT,  ESQ.,  SEPT.    10,  1805. 

YES,  my  stray  steps  have  wander 'd,  wander 'd  far 
From  thee,  and  long,  heart-soothing  Poesy  ! 
And  many  a  flower,  which  in  the  passing  time 
My  heart  hath  register'd,  nipp'd  by  the  chill 
Of  undeserved  neglect,  hath  shrunk  and  died. 
Heart-soothing  Poesy  ! — though  thou  hast  ceased 
To  hover  o'er  the  many-voiced  strings 
Of  my  long  silent  lyre,  yet  thou  canst  still 
Call  the  warm  tear  from  its  thrice-hallow'd  cell, 
And  with  recall'd  images  of  bliss 
Warm  my  reluctant  heart. — Yes,  I  would  throw, 
Once  more  would  throw,  a  quick  and  hurried  hand 
O'er  the  responding  chords. — It  hath  riot  ceased: 
It  cannot,  will  not  cease  ;  the  heavenly  warmth 
Plays  round  my  heart,  and  mantles  o'er  my  cheek ; 
Still,  though  unbidden,  plays. — Fair  Poesy  ! 
The  summer  and  the  spring,  the  wind  and  rain, 
Sunshine  and  storm,  with  various  interchange, 
Have  mark'd  full  many  a  day,  and  week,  and 
month, 


292  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Since  by  dark  wood,  or  hamlet  far  retired, 
Spell-struck,  with  thee  I  loiter'd. — Sorceress  ! 
I  cannot  burst  thy  bonds  ! — It  is  but  lift 
Thy  blue  eyes  to  that  deep-bespangled  vault, 
Wreathe  thy  enchanted  tresses  round  thine  arm, 
And  mutter  some  obscure  and  charmed  rhyme, 
And  I  could  follow  thee,  on  thy  night's  work, 
Up  to  the  regions  of  thrice-chasten'd  fire, 
Or  in  the  caverns  of  the  ocean-flood, 
Thrid  the  light  mazes  of  thy  volant  foot. 
Yet  other  duties  call  me,  and  mine  ear 
Must  turn  away  from  the  high  minstrelsy 
Of  thy  soul-trancing  harp,  unwillingly 
Must  turn  away  ;  there  are  severer  strains 
(And  surely  they  are  sweet  as  ever  smote 
The  ear  of  spirit,  from  this  mortal  coil 
Released  and  disembodied,)  there  are  strains, 
Forbid  to  all,  save  those  whom  solemn  thought, 
Through  the  probation  of  revolving  years, 
And  mighty  converse  with  the  spirit  of  truth, 
Have  purged  and  purified. — To  these  my  soul 
Aspireth  ;  and  to  this  sublirner  end 
I  gird  myself,  and  climb  the  toilsome  steep 
With  patient  expectation. — Yea,  sometimes 
Foretaste  of  bliss  rewards  me  ;  and  sometimes 
Spirits  unseen  upon  my  footsteps  wait, 
And  minister  strange  music,  which  doth  seem 
Now  near,  now  distant,  now  on  high,  now  low, 
Then  swelling  from  all  sides,  with  bliss  complete 
And  full  fruition  filling  all  the  soul. 


FRAGMENTS.  293 

Surely  such  ministry,  though  rare,  may  soothe 

The  steep  ascent,  and  cheat  the  lassitude 

Of  toil ;  and  but  that  my  fond  heart 

Reverts  to  day-dreams  of  the  summer  gone ; 

When  by  clear  fountain,  or  embower'd  brake, 

I  lay  a  listless  muser,  prizing,  far 

Above  all  other  lore,  the  poet's  theme  ; 

But  for  such  recollections,  I  could  brace 

My  stubborn  spirit  for  the  arduous  path 

Of  science  unregretting ;  eye  afar 

Philosophy  upon  her  steepest  height, 

And  with  bold  step,  and  resolute  attempt, 

Pursue  her  to  the  innermost  recess, 

Where  throned  in  light  she  sits,  the  Queen  of  Truth. 


I  HAVE  a  wish,  and  near  my  heart 

That  wish  lies  buried  ; 
To  keep  it  there's  a  foolish  part, 

For,  oh  !  it  must  not  be, 

It  must  not,  must  not  be. 

Why,  my  fond  heart,  why  beat'st  thou  so  ? 

The  dream  is  fair  to  see — 
But,  did  the  lovely  flatterer  go ; 

It  must  not,  must  not  be, 

Oh !  no,  it  must  not  be. 

JTis  well  this  tear  in  secret  falls, 

This  weakness  suits  not  me ; 
I  know  where  sterner  duty  calls — 
25* 


294  H.  K.  WHITK'S  POEMS. 

It  must  not,  cannot  be, 
Oh !  no,  it  cannot  be. 


ONCE  more  his  beagles  wake  the  slumb'ring  morn, 

And  the  high  woodland  echoes  to  his  horn, 

As  on  the  mountain  cliff  the  hunter  band 

Chase  the  fleet  chamois  o'er  the  unknown  land ; 

Or  sadly  silent,  from  some  jutting  steep, 

He  throws  his  line  into  the  gulfy  deep, 

Where,  in  the  wilderness  grotesque  and  drear, 

The  loud  Arve  stuns  the  eve's  reposing  ear ; 

Or,  if  his  lost  domestic  joys  arise, 

Once  more  the  prattler  its  endearments  tries — 

It  lisps,  "  My  father!"  and  as  newly  prest 

Its  close  embraces  meet  his  lonely  breast. 

His  long-lost  partner,  too,  at  length  restored, 

Leans  on  his  arm,  and  decks  the  social  board. 

Yet  still,  mysterious  on  his  fever'd  brain 

The  deep  impressions  of  his  woes  remain;  [pale? 

He  thinks  she  weeps. — "  And  why,  my  love,  so 

What  hidden  grief  could  o'er  thy  peace  prevail, 

Or  is  it  fancy — yet  thou  dost  but  *  * ;" 

And  then  he  weeps,  and  weeps,  he  knows  not  why. 


DREAR  winter  !  who  dost  knock 

So  loud  and  angry  on  my  cottage  roof, 

In  the  loud  night-storm  wrapt,  while  drifting  snows 

The  cheerless  waste  invest,  and  cold,  and  wide, 


FRAGMENTS.  295 

Seen  by  the  flitting  star,  the  landscape  gleams ; 

With  no  unholy  awe  I  hear  thy  voice, 

As  by  my  dying  embers,  safely  housed, 

I,  in  deep  silence,  muse.     Though  I  am  lone, 

And  my  low  chimney  owns  no  cheering  voice 

Of  friendly  converse  ;  yet  not  comfortless 

Is  my  long  evening,  nor  devoid  of  thoughts 

To  cheat  the  silent  hours  upon  their  way. 

There  are,  who  in  this  dark  and  fearful  night, 

Houseless,  and  cold  of  heart,  are  forced  to  bide 

These  beating  snows,  and  keen  relentless  winds — 

Wayfaring  men,  or  wanderers  whom  no  home 

Awaits,  nor  rest  from  travel,  save  the  inn 

Where  all  the  journiers  of  mortal  life 

Lie  down  at  last  to  sleep.     Yet  some  there  be 

Who  merit  not  to  suffer. — Infancy, 

And  sinew-shrinking  age,  are  not  exempt 

From  penury's  severest,  deadliest  gripe. 

Oh  !  it  doth  chill  the  eddying  heart's  blood  to  see 

The  guileless  cheek  of  infancy  turn'd  blue 

With  the  keen  cold. — Lo,  where  the  baby  hangs 

On  his  wan  parent's  hand  ;  his  shiv'ring  skin 

Half  bare,  and  opening  to  the  biting  gale. 

Poor  shiverer,  to  his  mother  he  upturns 

£.  meaning  look  in  silence  !  then  he  casts 

Askance,  upon  the  howling  waste  before, 

A  mournful  glance  upon  the  forward  way — 

But  all  lies  dreary,  and  cold  as  hope 

In  his  forsaken  breast. 


296  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

BEHOLD  the  shepherd  boy,  who  home  ward  tends, 
Finish'd  his  daily  labor. — O'er  the  path, 
Deep  overhung  with  herbage,  does  he  stroll 
With  pace  irregular :  by  fits  he  runs, 
Then  sudden  stops  with  vacant  countenance, 
Arid  picks  the  pungent  herb,  or  on  the  stile 
Listlessly  sits  and  twines  the  reedy  whip, 
And  carols  blithe  his  short  and  simple  song. 
Thrice  happy  idler  ! — thou  hast  never  known 
Refinement's  piercing  pang ;  thy  joys  are  small, 
Yet  are  they  unalloy'd  with  bitter  thought 
And  after  misery. — As  I  behold 
Thy  placid,  artless  countenance,  I  feel 
Strange  envy  of  thy  state,  and  fain  would  change 
These  short,  uncommon  hours  of  keener  bliss 
For  thy  long  day  of  equal  happiness. 

Heaven  grant  no  after  trials  may  imprint 
Trouble's  deep  wrinkle  on  thine  open  face,  [tread 
And  cloud  thy  generous  features. — May'st  thou 
In  the  calm  paths  through  which  thy  fathers  trod, 
To  their  late  graves  of  honorable  rest : 
So  will  thy  lot  be  happy.     So  the  hour 
Of  death  come  clad  in  loveliness  and  joy ; 
And  as  thou  lay'st  down  thy  blanched  head 
Beneath  the  narrow  mound,  affection's  hand 
Will  bend  the  osier  o'er  thy  peaceful  grave, 
And  bid  the  lily  blossom  on  thy  turf. 
But,  oh !  may  Heaven  avert  from  thee  the  curse 
Of  mad  fanaticism :  away,  away  ! — 
Let  not  the  restless  monster  dare  pollute 
The  calm  abodes  of  rural  innocence  ! 


FRAGMENTS.  297 

Oh !  if  the  wide  contagion  reach  thy  breast, 

Unhappy  peasant !  peace  will  vanish  thence, 

And  raging  turbulence  will  rack  thy  heart 

With  feverish  dismay :  then  discontent 

Will  prey  upon  thy  vitals,  then  will  doubt 

And  sad  uncertainty  in  fierce  array, 

With  superstition's  monstrous  train,  surround 

Thy  dreadful  death-bed ;  and  no  soothing  hand 

Will  smooth  the  painful  pillow,  for  the  bonds 

Of  tender  amity  are  all  consumed 

By  the  prevailing  fire.     They  all  are  lost 

In  one  ungovernable,  selfish  flame. 

Where  has  this  pestilence  arisen  ? — where 

The  Hydra  multitude  of  sister  ills, 

Of  infidelity,  and  open  sin, 

Of  disaffection,  and  repining  gall  ? 

Oh,  ye  revered,  venerable  band, 

Who  wear  religion's  ephod,  unto  ye 

Belongs  with  wakeful  vigilance  to  check 

The  growing  evil.     In  the  vicious  town 

Fearless,  and  fix'd,  the  monster  stands  secure ; 

But  guard  the  rural  shade  !.  let  honest  peace 

Yet  hold  her  ancient  seats,  and  still  preserve 

The  village  groups  in  their  primeval  bliss. 

Such  was,  Placidio,  thy  divine  employ, 

Ere  thou  wert  borne  to  some  sublimer  sphere 

By  death's  mild  angel. 


WHERE  yonder  woods  in  gloomy  pomp  arise, 
Embower'd,  remote,  a  lowly  cottage  lies : 


298  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Before  the  door  a  garden  spreads,  where  blows 
Now  wild,  once  cultivate,  the  brier  rose ;      [peer, 
Though  choked  with  weeds,  the  lily  there  will 
And  early  primrose  hail  the  nascent  year; 
There  to  the  walls  did  jess'mine  wreaths  attach, 
And  many  a  sparrow  twitter'd  in  the  thatch, 
While  in  the  woods  that  wave  their  heads  on  high 
The  stock-dove  warbled  murmuring  harmony. 

There,  buried  in  retirement,  dwelt  a  sage, 
Whose  reverend  locks  bespoke  him  far  in  age 
Silent  he  was,  and  solemn  was  his  mien, 
And  rarely  on  his  cheek  a  smile  was  seen. 
The  village  gossips  had  full  many  a  tale 
About  the  aged  "  hermit  of  the  dale." 
Some  call'd  him  wizard,  some  a  holy  seer, 
Though  all  beheld  him  with  an  eqdal  fear, 
And  many  a  stout  heart  had  he  put  to  flight, 
Met  in  the  gloomy  wood-walks  late  at  night. 

Yet  well  I  ween,  the  sire  was  good  of  heart, 
Nor  would  to  aught  one  heedless  pang  impart ; 
His  soul  was  gentle,  but  he'd  known  of  woe, 
Had  known  the  world,  nor  longer  wish'd  to  know. 
Here,  far  retired  from  all  its  busy  ways, 
He  hoped  to  spend  the  remnant  of  his  days ; 
And  here,  in  peace,  he  till'd  his  little  ground, 
And  saw,  unheeded,  years  revolving  round. 
Fair  was  his  daughter,  as  the  blush  of  day, 
In  her  alone  his  hopes  and  wishes  lay  : 
His  only  care,  about  her  future  life,  [strife. 

When  death  should  call  him  from  the  haunts  of 


FRAGMENTS.  299 

Sweet  was  her  temper,  mild  as  summer  skies 
When  o'er  their  azure  no  thin  vapour  flies : 
And  but  to  see  her  aged  father  sad, 
No  fear,  no  care,  the  gentle  Fanny  had. 
Still  at  her  wheel,  the  live-long  day  she  sung, 
Till  with  the  sound  the  lonesome  woodlands  rung, 
And  till,  usurp'd  his  long  unquestion'd  sway, 
The  solitary  bittern  wing'd  its  way. 
Indignant  rose,  on  dismal  pinions  borne, 
To  find,  untrod  by  man,  some  waste  forlorn, 
Where,  unmolested,  he  might  hourly  wail, 
And  with  his  screams  still  load  the  heavy  gale. 

Once  as  I  stray'd,  at  eve,  the  woods  among, 
To  pluck  wild  strawberries, — I  heard  her  song ; 
And  heard,  enchanted, — oh  !  it  was  so  soft, 
So  sweet,  I  thought  the  cherubim  aloft 
Were  quiring  to  the  spheres.     Now  the  full  note 
Did  on  the  downy  wings  of  silence  float 
Full  on  the  ravish'd  sense,  then  died  away, 
Distantly  on  the  ear,  in  sweet  decay. 

Then,  first  I  knew  the  cot ;  the  simple  pair ; 
Though  soon  become  a  welcome  inmate  there  : 
At  eve,  I  still  would  fly  to  hear  the  lay, 
Which  Fanny  to  her  lute  was  wont  to  play ; 
Or  with  the  Sire  would  sit  and  talk  of  war, 
For  wars  he'd  seen,  and  bore  full  many  a  scar, 
And  oft  the  plan  of  gallant  siege  he  drew, 
And  loved  to  teach  me  all  the  arts  he  knew. 


300  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

TO  A   FRIEND. 

To  you  these  pensive  lines  I  fondly  send, 
Far  distant  now,  my  brother,  and  my  friend. 
If,  'mid  the  novel  scene,  thou  yet  art  free 
To  give  one  silent,  museful  hour  to  me, 
Turn  from  the  world,  and  fancy,  whisp'ring  near, 
Thou  hear'st  the  voice  thou  once  didst  love  to  hear. 
Can  time  and  space,  ho  we'er  with  anguish  fraught, 
Damp  the  warm  heart,orchain  the  soaring  thought? 
Or,  when  most  dread,  the  nascent  joy  they  blast, 
Chase  from  the  mind  the  image  of  the  past  ? 
Ah,  no  !  when  death  has  robb'd  her  hoard  of  bliss, 
What  stays  to  soothe  the  widow's  hours,  but  this? 
This  cheers  her  dreams,  and  cheats  the  ling'ring 

time 
Till  she  shall  reach     ******* 


WITH  slow  step,  along  the  desert  sand, 
Where  o'er  the  parching  plains  broods  red  dismay, 
The  Arab  chief  leads  on  his  ruthless  band. 
And,  lo !  a  speck  of  dust  is  seen  to  play, 
On  the  remotest  confines  of  the  day. 
Arouse  !  arouse  !  fierce  does  the  chieftain  cry, 
Death  calls  !  the  caravan  is  on  its  way  ! 
The  warrior  shouts.     The  Siroc  hurries  by, 
Hush'd  is  his  stormy   voice,  and  quench'd  his 
murderous  eye. 

These  lines  might  appear,  by  the  metre,  to  have  been  intended 
for  a  stanza  of  the  "  Christiad"  perhaps  to  have  been  intro 
cluced  as  a  simile;  but  though  the  conception  is  striking,  the 
composition  is  far  more  incorrect  than  that  of  that  fine  fragment. 


FRAGMENTS.  301 

OH  !  had  the  soul's  deep  silence  power  to  speak ; 
Could  the  warm  thought  the  bars  of  distance  break! 
Could  the  lone  music  to  thine  ear  convey 
Each  rising  sigh,  and  all  the  heart  can  say  ! 
Dear  to  my  breast,  beyond  conception  dear, 
Would  the  long  solitude  of  night  appear : 
Sweet  would  it  be  to  hear  the  winds  complain — 
To  mark  the  heavings  of  the  moonlight  main ; 
Sweet  to  behold  the  silent  hamlet  lie, 
With  ****** 

But  sweeter  far      ***** 
Rose  not  unshared,  nor  fell  unmark'd  by  thee. 


THE  harp  is  still !  Weak  though  the  spirit  were 
That  whisper'd  in  its  rising  harmonies ; 
Yet  Mem'ry,  with  her  sister,  fond  Regret, 
Loves  to  recall  the  wild  and  wandering  airs 
That  cheer'd  the  long-fled  hours,  when  o'er  the 

strings 

That  spirit  hover'd.     Weak  and  though  it  were 
To  pour  the  torrent  of  impetuous  song, 
It  was  not  weak  to  touch  the  sacred  chords 
Of  pity,  or  to  summon  with  dark  spell 
Of  witching  rhymes,  the  spirits  of  the  deep 
Form'd  to  do  Fancy's  bidding ;  and  to  fetch 
Her  perfumes  from  the  morning  star,  or  dye 
Her  volant  robes  with  the  bright  rainbow's  hues. 


26 


302  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

***** 

OR  should  the  day  be  overcast, 
We'll  linger  till  the  shower  be  past ; 
Where  the  hawthorn's  branches  spread 
A  fragrant  covert  o'er  the  head. 
And  list  the  rain-drops  beat  the  leaves, 
Or  smoke  upon  the  cottage  eaves  ; 
Or,  silent  dimpling  on  the  stream, 
Convert  to  lead  its  silver  gleam ; 
And  we  will  muse  on  human  life, 
And  think,  from  all  the  storms  of  strife, 
How  sweet  to  find  a  snug  retreat 
Where  we  may  hear  the  tempests  beat, 
Secure  and  fearless, — and  provide 
Repose  for  life's  calm  eventide. 


MILD  Vesper!  favorite  of  the  Paphian  Queen, 
Whose  lucid  lamp  on  evening's  twilight  zone, 
Sheds  a  soft  lustre  o'er  the  gloom  serene, 
Only  by  Scynthia's  silver  beam  outshone  : 
Thee  I  invoke  to  point  my  lonely  way 
O'er  these  wild  wastes,  to  where  my  lover  bides, 
For  thou  alone  canst  lend  thy  friendly  ray, 
Now  the  bright  moon  toward  the  ocean  glides — 
No  midnight  murderer  asks  thy  guilty  aid, 
No  nightly  robber     ***** 
I  am  alone,  by  silly  love  betray'd. 
To  woo  the  star  of  Venus  *  *  * 


FRAGMENTS.  303 

IN  every  clime,  from  Lapland  to  Japan,       [man. 
This  truth's  confess'd, — that  man's  worst  foe  is 
The  rav'ning  tribes,  that  crowd  the  sultry  zone, 
Prey  on  all  kinds  and  colors  but  their  own. 
Lion  with  lion  herds,  and  pard  with  pard, 
Instinct's  first  law,  their  covenant  and  guard. 
But  man  alone,  the  lord  of  ev'ry  clime, 
Whose  post  is  godlike,  and  whose  pow'rs  sublime, 
Man,  at  whose  birth  the  Almighty  hand  stood  still, 
Pleased  with  the  last  great  effort  of  his  will, 
Man,  man  alone,  no  tenant  of  the  wood, 
Preys  on  his  kind,  and  laps  his  brother's  blood : 
His  fellow  leads  where  hidden  pit-falls  lie, 
And  drinks  with  ecstacy  his  dying  sigh. 


ODE   TO   LIBERTY. 

HENCE  to  thy  darkest  shades,  dire  Slavery,  hence  ! 

Thine  icy  touch  can  freeze, 

Swift  as  the  Polar  breeze, 
The  proud  defying  port  of  human  sense. 

Hence  to  thine  Indian  cave, 
To  where  the  tall  canes  whisper  o'er  thy  rest, 

Like  the  murmuring  wave 
Swept  by  the  dank  wing  of  the  rapid  west : 

And  at  the  night's  still  noon, 
The  lash'd  Angolan,  in  his  grated  cell, 

Mix'd  with  the  tiger's  yell, 
Howls  to  the  dull  ear  of  the  silent  moon. 


304  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

But  come,  thou  goddess,  blithe  and  free, 
Thou  mountain-maid,  sweet  Liberty  ! 
With  buskin'd  knee,  and  bosom  bare, 
Thy  tresses  floating  in  the  air ; 
Come, — and  treading  on  thy  feet, 
Independence  let  me  meet, 
Thy  giant  mate,  whose  awful  form 
Has  often  braved  the  bellowing  storm, 
And  heard  its  angry  spirit  shriek, 
Rear'd  on  some  promontory's  peak, 
Seen  by  the  lonely  fisher  far, 
By  the  glimpse  of  flitting  star. 

His  awful  bulk,  in  dusky  shroud, 
Commixing  with  the  pitchy  cloud ; 
While  at  his  feet  the  lightnings  play, 
And  the  deep  thunders  die  away. 
Goddess !  come,  and  let  us  sail 
On  the  fresh  reviving  gale ; 
O'er  dewy  lawns,  and  forests  lone, 
Till  lighting  on  some  mountain  stone, 
That  scales  the  circumambient  sky, 
We  see  a  thousand  nations  lie, 
From  Zembla's  snows  to  Afric's  heat, 
Prostrate  beneath  our  frolic  feet. 

From  Italy's  luxurious  plains, 
Where  everlasting  summer  reigns, 
Why,  goddess,  dost  thou  turn  away  ? 
Didst  thou  never  sojourn  there  ? 
Oh,  yes,  thou  didst — but  fallen  is  Rome ; 
The  pilgrim  weeps  her  silent  doom, 


FRAGMENTS.  305 

As  at  midnight,  murmuring  low, 
Along  the  mouldering  portico, 
He  hears  the  desolate  wind  career, 
While  the  rank  ivy  whispers  near. 

Ill-fated  Gaul!  ambitious  grasp 

Bids  thee  again  in  slavery  gasp. 

Again  the  dungeon-walls  resound 

The  hopeless  shriek,  the  groan  profound  : 

But,  lo,  in  yonder  happy  skies, 

Helvetia's  airy  mountains  rise, 

And,  oh  !  on  her  tall  cliffs  reclined, 

Gay  Fancy,  whispering  to  the  mind : 

As  the  wild  herdsman's  call  is  heard, 

Tells  me,  that  she,  o'er  all  preferr'd, 

In  every  clime,  in  every  zone, 

Is  Liberty's  divinest  throne. 

Yet,  whence  that  sigh?  0  goddess!  say, 

Has  the  tyrant's  thirsty  sway 

Dared  profane  the  sacred  seat, 

Thy  long  high-favor 'd,  best  retreat? 

It  has  !  it  has  !  away,  away 

To  where  the  green  isles  woo  the  day  ! 

Where  thou  art  still  supreme,  and  where 

Thy  Paeans  fill  the  floating  air. 


WHO  is  it  leads  the  planets  on  their  dance — 
The  mighty  sisterhood  ?  who  is  it  strikes 
The  harp  of  universal  harmony? 
26* 


306  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Hark !  'tis  the  voice  of  planets  on  their  dance, 

Led  by  the  arch-contriver.     Beautiful 

The  harmony  of  order !  How  they  sing, 

The  regulated  orbs,  upon  their  path 

Through  the  wide  trackless  ether !  sing  as  though 

A  syren  sat  upon  each  glitt'ring  gem, 

And  made  fair  music — such  as  mortal  hand 

Ne'er  raised  on  the  responding  chords ;  more  like 

The  mystic  melody  that  oft  the  bard 

Hears  in  the  strings  of  the  suspended  harp, 

Touch'd  by  some  unknown  beings  that  reside 

In  evening  breezes,  or,  at  dead  of  night, 

Wake  in  the  long,  shrill  pauses  of  the  wind. 

This  is  the  music  which,  in  ages  hush'd, 

Ere  the  Assyrian  quaflfd  his  cups  of  blood, 

Kept  the  lone  Chald  awake,  when  through  the  night 

He  watch'd  his  herds.     The  solitary  man, 

By  frequent  meditation,  learnt  to  spell 

Yon  sacred  volume  of  high  mystery. 

He  could  arrange  the  wandering  passengers, 

From  the  pale  star,  first  on  the  silent  brow 

Of  the  meek-tressed  Eve,  to  him  who  shines, 

Son  of  the  morning,  orient  Lucifer; 

Sweet  were  to  him,  in  that  unletter'd  age, 

The  openings  of  wonder. — He  could  gaze 

Till  his  whole  soul  was  fill'd  with  mystery, 

And  every  night-wind  was  a  spirit's  voice, 

And  every  far-off  mist,  a  spirit's  form  : 

So  with  fables,  and  wild  romantic  dreams, 

He  mix'd  his  truth,  and  couch'd  in  symbols  dark. 

Hence,  blind  idolatry  arose,  and  men 

Knelt  to  the  sun,  or  at  the  dead  of  night 


FRAGMENTS.  307 

Pour'd  their  orisons  to  the  cloud- wrapt  moon. 

Hence,  also,  after  ages  into  stars 

Transform'd  their  heroes ;  and  the  warlike  chief, 

With  fond  eye  fix'd  on  some  resplendent  gem, 

Held  converse  with  the  spirits  of  his  sires : — 

With  other  eyes  than  these  did  Plato  view 

The  heavens,  and,  fill'd  with  reasonings  sublime, 

Half-pierced,  at  intervals,  the  mystery, 

Which  with  the  gospel  vanished,  and  made  way 

For  noon-day  brightness.         *         *         * 


How  beautiful  upon  the  element 

The  Egyptian  moonlight  sleeps  ! 
The  Arab  on  the  bank  hath  pitch'd  his  tent ; 

The  lightwave  dances, sparkling,  o'er  the  deeps; 
The  tall  reeds  whisper  in  the  gale, 
And  o'er  the  distant  tide  moves  slow  the  silent  sail. 

Thou  mighty  Nile  !  and  thou  receding  main, 
How  peacefully  ye  rest  upon  your  shores, 
Tainted  no  more,  as  when  from  Cairo's  towers, 
Roll'd  the  swoln  corse,  by  plague  !  the  monster ! 

slain. 

Far  as  the  eye  can  see  around, 
Upon  the  solitude  of  waters  wide, 
There  is  no  sight,  save  of  the  restless  tide — 
Save  of  the  winds,  and  waves,  there  is  no  sound. 

Egypt ia  sleeps,  her  sons  in  silence  sleep  ! 
Ill-fated  land,  upon  thy  rest  they  come — 


308  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Th'  invader,  and  his  host.     Behold  the  deep 
Bears  on  her  farthest  verge  a  dusky  gloom — 
And  now  they  rise,  the  masted  forests  rise, 

And  gallants,  through  the  foam,  their  way  they 
make. 

Stern  Genius  of  the  Memphian  shores,  awake  ! — 
The  foeman  in  thy  inmost  harbor  lies, 

And  ruin  o'er  thy  land  with  brooding  pennon  flies. 


GHOSTS  of  the  dead,  in  grim  array, 

Surround  the  tyrant's  nightly  bed  ! 
And  in  the  still,  distinctly  say, 

I  by  thy  treachery  bled. 
And  I,  and  I,  ten  thousands  cry ; 

From  Jaffa's  plains,  from  Egypt's  sands, 
They  come,  they  raise  the  chorus  high, 

And  whirl  around  in  shrieking  bands. 
Loud,  and  more  loud,  the  clamors  rise, 

"Lo!  there  the  traitor!  murderer!  lies.' 
He  murder'd  me,  he  murder'd  thee, 

And  now  his  bed  his  rack  shall  be. 
As  when  a  thousand  torrents  roar, 
Around  his  head  their  yells  they  pour. 
The  sweat-drops  start,  convulsions  hand 
Binds  every  nerve  in  iron  band. 
'Tis  done  !  they  fly,  the 'clamors  die, 

The  moon  is  up,  the  night  is  calm, 
Man's  busy  broods  in  slumbers  lie  ; 

But  horrors  still  the  tyrant's  soul  alarm, 


FRAGMENTS.  309 

And  ever  and  anon,  serenely  clear, 
Have  mercy,  mercy,  heaven  !  strikes  on  dull  mid- 
night's ear. 


ODE 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  DJENGHIEN. 

WHAT  means  yon  trampling !  what  that  light 

That  glimmers  in  the  inmost  wood  ; 
As  though  beneath  the  felon  night, 

It  mark'd  some  deed  of  blood ; 
Behold  yon  figures,  dim  descried 
In  dark  array ;  they  speechless  glide. 
The  forest  moans ;  the  raven's  scream 
Swells  slowly  o'er  the  moated  stream, 
As  from  the  castle's  topmost  tower, 

It  chants  its  boding  song  alone  : 
A  song,  that  at  this  awful  hour 

Bears  dismal  tidings  in  its  funeral  tone ; 
Tidings,  that  in  some  grey  domestic's  ear 
Will  on  his  wakeful  bed  strike  deep  mysterious  fear. 

And,  hark,  that  loud  report !  'tis  done ; 

There's  murder  couch'd  in  yonder  gloom ; 
'Tis  done,  'tis  done  I  the  prize  is  won, 

Another  rival  meets  his  doom. 
The  tyrant  smiles, — with  fell  delight 
He  dwells  upon  the     ***** 
The  tyrant  smiles ;  from  terror  freed> 
Exulting  in  the  foul  misdeed, 


310  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  sternly  in  his  secret  breast 

Marks  out  the  victims  next  to  fall. 

His  purpose  fix'd  ;  their  moments  fly  no  more, 

He  points, — the  poinard  knows  its  own ; 
Unseen  it  strikes, — unseen  they  die,        [groan. 
Foul  midnight  only  hears,  and  shudders  at  the 
But  justice  yet  shall  lift  her  arm  on  high, 
And  Bourbon's  blood  no  more  ask  vengeance  from 
the  sky. 


PSALM   XXII. 

Mr  God,  my  God,  oh,  why  dost  thou  forsake  me? 

Why  art  thou  distant  in  the  hour  of  fear  ? 
To  thee,  my  wonted  help,  I  still  betake  me, 

To  thee  I  clamor,  but  thou  dost  not  hear. 

The  beam  of  morning  witnesses  my  sighing, 
The  lonely  night-hour  views  me  weep  in  vain, 

Yet  thou  art  holy,  and,  on  thee  relying, 

Our  fathers  were  released  from  grief  and  pain. 

To  thee  they  cried,  and  thou  didst  hear  their 
wailing, 

On  thee  they  trusted,  and  their  trust  was  sure ; 
But  I,  poor,  lost,  and  wretched  son  of  failing, 

I,  without  hope,  must  scorn  and  hate  endure. 

Me  they  revile ;  with  many  ills  molested, 
They  bid  me  seek  of  thee,  0  Lord,  redress : 


FRAGMENTS.  311 

On  God,  they  say,  his  hope  and  trust  he  rested, 
Let  God  relieve  him  in  his  deep  distress. 

To  me,  Almighty !  in  thy  mercy  shining, 

Life's  dark  and  dangerous  portals  thou  didst  ope ; 

And  softly  on  my  mother's  lap  reclining,     [hope. 
Breathed  through  my  breast  the  lively  soul  of 

Even  from  the  womb,  thou  art  my  God, my  Father ! 

Aid  me,  now  trouble  weighs  me  to  the  ground: 
Me  heavy  ills  have  worn,  and,  faint  and  feeble, 

The  bulls  of  Bashan  have  beset  me  round. 

My  heart  is  melted  and  my  soul  is  weary,    [feet ! 

The  wicked  ones  have  pierced  my  hands  and 
Lord,  let  thy  influence  cheer  my  bosom  dreary : 

My  help !  my  strength !  let  me  thy  presence 
greet. 

Save  me !  oh,  save  me  !  from  the  sword  dividing, 
Give  me  my  darling  from  the  jaws  of  death  ! 

Thee  will  I  praise,  and,  in  thy  name  confiding, 
Proclaim  thy  mercies  with  my  latest  breath. 

***** 


312  H.  z.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


THE   EVE  OF  DEATH. 

IRREGULAR. 


SILENCE  of  death — portentous  calm, 

Those  airy  forms  that  yonder  fly, 
Denote  that  your  void  fore-runs  a  storm, 

That  the  hour  of  fate  is  nigh. 
I  see,  I  see,  on  the  dim  mist  borne, 

The  Spirit  of  battles  rear  his  crest ! 
I  see,  I  see,  that  ere  the  morn, 

His  spear  will  forsake  its  hated  rest, 
And  the  widow'd  wife  of  Larrendill  will  beat  her 
naked  breast. 

II. 

O'er  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  sullen  deep, 

No  softly  ruffling  zephyrs  fly ; 
But  Nature  sleeps  a  deathless  sleep, 

For  the  hour  of  battle  is  nigh. 
Not  a  loose  leaf  waves  on  the  dusky  oak, 

But  a  creeping  stillness  reigns  around  ; 
Except  when  the  raven,  with  ominous  croak, 

On  the  ear  does  unwelcomely  sound. 
I  know,  I  know  what  this  silence  means ; 

I  know  what  the  raven  saith — 


THANATOS.  313 

Strike,  oh,  ye  bards !  the  melancholy  harp, 
For  this  is  the  eve  of  death. 

III. 

Behold,  how  along  the  twilight  air 

The  shades  of  our  fathers  glide  ! 
There  Morven  fled,  with  the  blood-drench'd  hair, 

And  Colma  with  gray  side. 
No  gale  around  its  coolness  flings, 

Yet  sadly  sigh  the  gloomy  trees ; 
And,  hark  !  how  the  harp's  unvisited  strings 

Sound  sweet,  as  if  swept  by  a  whispering  breeze ! 
'Tis  done  !  the  sun  he  has  set  in  blood  ! 

He  will  never  set  more  to  the  brave  ; 
Let  us  pour  to  the  hero  the  dirge  of  death — 

For  to-morrow  he  hies  to  the  grave. 


THANATOS. 

OH  !  who  would  cherish  life, 
And  cling  unto  this  heavy  clog  of  clay, 

Love  this  rude  world  of  strife, 
Where  glooms  and  tempests  cloud  the  fairest  day ; 

And  where,  'neath  outward  smiles, 
Conceal'd,  the  snake  lies  feeding  on  its  prey, 
Where  pit-falls  lie  in  every  flowery  way, 

And  sirens  lure  the  wanderer  to  their  wiles ! 
Hateful  it  is  to  me, 

Its  riotous  railings  and  revengeful  strife ; 
27 


314  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

I'm  tired  with  all  its  screams  and  brutal  shouts 
Dinning  the  ear ; — away — away  with  life  ! 
And  welcome,  oh  !  thou  silent  maid, 
Who  in  some  foggy  vault  art  laid, 
Where  never  day-light's  dazzling  ray 
Comes  to  disturb  thy  dismal  sway ;      [sleep, 
And  there  amid  unwholesome  damps  dost 
In  such  forgetful  slumbers  deep, 
That  all  thy  senses  stupefied, 
Are  to  marble  petrified. 
Sleepy  Death,  I  welcome  thee  ! 
Sweet  are  thy  calms  to  misery. 
Poppies  I  will  ask  no  more, 
Nor  the  fatal  hellebore ; 
Death  is  the  best,  the  only  cure, 
His  are  slumbers  ever  sure. 
Lay  me  in  the  Gothic  tomb, 
In  whose  solemn  fretted  gloom 
I  may  lie  in  mouldering  state, 
With  all  the  grandeur  of  the  great : 
Over  me,  magnificent, 
Carve  a  stately  monument : 
Then  thereon  my  statue  lay, 
With  hands  in  attitude  to  pray, 
And  angels  serve  to  hold  my  head, 
Weeping  o'er  the  father  dead. 
Duly  too  at  close  of  day, 
Let  the  pealing  organ  play  ; 
And  while  the  harmonious  thunders  roll, 
Chant  a  vesper  to  my  soul : 
Thus  how  sweet  my  sleep  will  be, 
Shut  out  from  thoughtful  misery  ! 


ATHANATOS.  315 


ATHANATOS. 

AWAY  with  death — away 
With  all  her  sluggish  sleeps  and  chilling  damps, 

Impervious  to  the  day, 
Where  Nature  sinks  into  inanity. 

How  can  the  soul  desire 
Such  hateful  nothingness  to  crave, 
And  yield  with  joy  the  vital  fire, 
To  moulder  in  the  grave  ! 
Yet  mortal  life  is  sad, 
Eternal  storms  molest  its  sullen  sky ; 

And  sorrows  ever  rife 
Drain  the  sacred  fountain  dry — 

Away  with  mortal  life  ! 
But,  hail  the  calm  reality, 
The  seraph  Immortality  ! 
Hail  the  Heavenly  bowers  of  peace  ! 
Where  all  the  storms  of  passion  cease. 
Wild  Life's  dismaying  struggle  o'er, 
The  wearied  spirit  weeps  no  more ; 
But  wears  the  eternal  smile  of  joy, 
Tasting  bliss  without  alloy. 
Welcome,  welcome,  happy  bowers, 
Where  no  passing  tempest  lowers ; 
But  the  azure  heavens  display 
The  everlasting  smile  of  day ; 
Where  the  choral  seraph  choir, 
Strike  to  praise  the  harmonious  lyre ; 


316  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  the  spirit  sinks  to  ease, 

Lull'd  by  distant  symphonies. 

Oh  !  to  think  of  meeting  there 

The  friends  whose  graves  received  our  tear, 

The  daughter  loved,  the  wife  adored, 

To  our  widow 'd  arms  restored ; 

And  all  the  joys  which  death  did  sever, 

Given  to  us  again  for  ever  ! 

Who  would  cling  to  wretched  life, 

And  hug  the  poison'd  thorn  of  strife  ; 

Who  would  not  long  from  earth  to  fly, 

A  sluggish  senseless  lump  to  lie, 

When  the  glorious  prospect  lies 

Full  before  his  raptured  eyes  ? 


MUSIC. 

Written  between  the  Ages  of  Fourteen  and  Fifteen,  with 
a  few  subsequent  verbal  Alterations. 

Music,  all  powerful  o'er  the  human  mind, 
Can  still  each  mental  storm,  each  tumult  calm, 

Soothe  anxious  Care  on  sleepless  couch  reclined, 
And  e'en  fierce  Anger's  furious  rage  disarm. 

At  her  command  the  various  passions  lie ; 

She  stirs  to  battle,  or  she  lulls  to  peace ; 
Melts  the  charm'd  soul  to  thrilling  ecstacy,  [cease. 

And  bids  the  jarring  world's  harsh  clangour 

Her  martial  sounds  can  fainting  troops  inspire 
With  strength  unwonted,  and  enthusiasm  raise ; 


MUSIC.  317 

Infuse  new  ardour,  and  with  youthful  fire, 

Urge  on  the  warrior  gray  with  length  of  days. 

Far  better  she  when  with  her  soothing  lyre 

She  charms  the  falchion  from  the  savage  grasp, 

And  melting  into  pity  vengeful  Ire, 

Looses  the  bloody  breast-plate's  iron  clasp. 

With  her  in  pensive  mood  I  long  to  roam, 

At  midnight's  hour,  or  evening's  calm  decline, 

And  thoughtful  o'er  the  falling  streamlet's  foam, 
In  calm  Seclusion's  hermit-walks  recline. 

Whilst  mellow  sounds  from  distant  copse  arise, 
Of  softest  flute  or  reeds  harmonic  join'd, 

With  rapture  thrill'd  each  worldly  passion  dies, 
And  pleased  Attention  claims  the  passive  mind. 

Soft  through  the  dell  the  dying  strains  retire, 
Then  burst  majestic  in  the  varied  swell ; 

Now  breathe  melodious  as  the  Grecian  lyre, 
Or  on  the  ear  in  sinking  cadence  dwell. 

Romantic  sounds  !  such  is  the  bliss  ye  give,  [soul, 
That  heaven's  bright  scenes  seem  bursting  on  the 

With  joy  I'd  yield  each  sensual  wish,  to  live 
For  ever  'neath  your  undefiled  control. 

Oh  !  surely  melody  from  heaven  was  sent, 

To  cheer  the  soul  when  tired  with  human  strife, 

To  soothe  the  wayward  heart  by  sorrow  rent, 
And  soften  down  the  rugged  road  of  life. 
27* 


318  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


ON 
BEING  CONFINED  TO  SCHOOL 

ONE    PLEASANT    MORNING    IN    SPRING. 


WRITTEN    AT   THE   AGE   OF   THIRTEEN. 


THE  morning  sun's  enchanting  rays 
Now  call  forth  every  songster's  praise  ; 
Now  the  lark,  with  upward  flight,. 
Gayly  ushers  in  the  light ; 
While  wildly  warbling  from  each  tree, 
The  birds  sing  songs  to  Liberty. 

But  for  me  no  songster  sings, 
For  me  no  joyous  lark  up-springs ; 
For  I,  confined  in  gloomy  school, 
Must  own  the  pedant's  iron  rule, 
And,  far  from  sylvan  shades  and  bowers, 
In  durance  vile  must  pass  the  hours  ; 
There  con  the  scholiast's  dreary  lines, 
Where  no  bright  ray  of  genius  shines, 
And  close  to  rugged  learning  cling, 
While  laughs  around  the  jocund  spring. 

How  gladly  would  my  soul  forego 
All  that  arithmeticians  know, 


TO    CONTEMPLATION.  319 

Or  stiff  grammarians  quaintly  teach, 
Or  all  that  industry  can  reach, 
To  taste  each  morn  of  all  the  joys 
That  with  the  laughing  sun  arise  : 
And  unconstrain'd  to  rove  along 
The  bushy  brakes  and  glens  among ; 
And  woo  the  muse's  gentle  power, 
In  unfrequented  rural  bower  ! 
But,  ah  !  such  heaven-approaching  joys 
Will  never  greet  my  longing  eyes ; 
Still  will  they  cheat  in  vision  fine, 
Yet  never  but  in  fancy  shine. 

Oh,  that  I  were  the  little  wren 
That  shrilly  chirps  from  yonder  glen  ! 
Oh,  far  away  I  then  would  rove, 
To  some  secluded  bushy  grove ; 
There  hop  and  sing  with  careless  glee, 
Hop  and  sing  at  liberty ; 
And  till  death  should  stop  my  lays, 
Far  from  men  would  spend  my  days. 


TO   CONTEMPLATION. 

THEE  do  I  own,  the  prompter  of  my  joys, 
The  soother  of  my  cares,  inspiring  peace  ; 
And  I  will  ne'er  forsake  thee. — Men  may  rave, 
And  blame  and  censure  me,  that  I  don't  tie 
My  every  thought  down  to  the  desk,  and  spend 
The  morning  of  my  life  in  adding  figures 


320  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

With  accurate  monotony  :  that  so 
The  good  things  of  the  world  may  be  my  lot, 
And  I  might  taste  the  blessedness  of  wealth : 
But,  oh  !  I  was  not  made  for  money-getting ; 
For  me  no  much-respected  plum  awaits, 
Nor  civic  honour,  envied. — For  as  still 
I  tried  to  cast  with  school  dexterity 
The  interesting  sums,  my  vagrant  thoughts 
Would  quick  revert  to  many  a  woodland  haunt, 
Which  fond  remembrance  cherish'd,  and  the  pen 
Dropp'd  from  my  senseless  fingers  as  I  pictured, 
In  my  mind's  eye,  how  on  the  shores  of  Trent 
I  erewhile  wander'd  with  my  early  friends 
In  social  intercourse.     And  then  I'd  think 
How  contrary  pursuits  had  thrown  us  wide, 
One  from  the  other,  scatter d  o'er  the  globe ; 
They  were  set  down  with  sober  steadiness, 
Each  to  his  occupation.     I  alone, 
A  wayward  youth,  misled  by  Fancy's  vagaries, 
Remain'd  unsettled,  insecure,  and  veering 
With  every  wind  to  every  point  o'  th'  compass. 
Yes,  in  the  counting-house  I  could  indulge 
In  fits  of  close  abstraction ;  yea,  amid 
The  busy  bustling  crowds  could  meditate, 
And  send  my  thoughts  ten  thousand  leagues  away 
Beyond  the  Atlantic,  resting  on  my  friend. 
Ay,  Contemplation,  even  in  earliest  youth 
I  woo'd  thy  heavenly  influence  !  I  would  walk 
A  weary  way  when  all  my  toils,  were  done, 
To  lay  myself  at  night  in  some  lone  wood, 
And  hear  the  sweet  song  of  the  nightingale. 
Oh,  those  were  times  of  happiness,  and  still 


TO    CONTEMPLATION.  321 

To  memory  doubly  dear ;  for  growing  years 

Had  not  then  taught  me  man  was  made  to  mourn ; 

And  a  short  hour  of  solitary  pleasure, 

Stolen  from  sleep,  was  ample  recompense 

For  all  the  hateful  bustles  of  the  day. 

My  op'ning  mind  was  ductile  then,  and  plastic, 

And  soon  the  marks  of  care  were  worn  away, 

While  I  was  sway'd  by  every  novel  impulse, 

Yielding  to  all  the  fancies  of  the  hour. 

But  it  has  now  assum'd  its  character ; 

Mark'd  by  strong  lineaments,  its  haughty  tone, 

Like  the  firm  oak,  would  sooner  break  than  bend. 

Yet  still,  oh,  Contemplation !  I  do  love 

To  indulge  thy  solemn  musings ;  still  the  same 

With  thee  alone  I  know  to  melt  and  weep, 

In  thee  alone  delighting.     Why  along 

The  dusky  tract  of  commerce  should  I  toil, 

When,  with  an  easy  competence  content, 

I  can  alone  be  happy ;  where  with  thee 

I  may  enjoy  the  loveliness  of  Nature, 

And  loose  the  wings  of  Fancy  ? — Thus  alone 

Can  I  partake  of  happiness  on  earth ; 

And  to  be  happy  here  is  man's  chief  end, 

For  to  be  happy  he  must  needs  be  good. 


322  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

ODE, 

TO    THE    HARVEST    MOON. 


Cum  ruit  imbriferum  ver : 

Spicea  jam  campis  cum  messis  inhorruit,  et  cum 
Frumenta  in  viridi  stipula  lactentia  turgent: 

Cuncta  tibi  Cererem  pubes  agrestis  adoret. 

Virgil. 

MOON  of  Harvest,  herald  mild 
Of  plenty,  rustic  labour's  child, 
Hail !  oh  hail !  I  greet  thy  beam, 
As  soft  it  trembles  o'er  the  stream, 
And  gilds  the  straw-thatch'd  hamlet  wide, 
Where  Innocence  and  Peace  reside ; 
'Tis  thou  that  glad'st  with  joy  the  rustic  throng, 
Promptest  the  tripping  dance,  th'  exhilarating  song. 

Moon  of  Harvest,  I  do  love 
O'er  the  uplands  now  to  rove,     « 
While  thy  modest  ray  serene 
Gilds  the  wide  surrounding  scene ; 
And  to  watch  thee  riding  high 
In  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky, 
Where  no  thin  vapour  intercepts  thy  ray, 
But  in  unclouded  majesty  thou  walkest  on  thy  way. 

Pleasing  'tis,  oh !  modest  Moon  ! 
Now  the  Night  is  at  her  noon, 


TO    THE    HARVEST    MOON.  323 

'Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie, 
While  around  the  zephyrs  sigh, 
Fanning  soft  the  sun-tann'd  wheat, 
Ripen'd  by  the  summer's  heat ; 
Picturing  all  the  rustic's  joy 
When  boundless  plenty  greets  his  eye, 

And  thinking  soon, 

Oh,  modest  Moon ! 
How  many  a  female  eye  will  roam 

Along  the  road, 

To  see  the  load, 
The  last  dear  load  of  harvest-home. 

Storms  and  tempests,  floods  and  rains, 

Stern  despoilers  of  the  plains, 

Hence  away,  the  season  flee, 

Foes  to  light-heart  jollity  : 

May  no  winds  careering  high, 

Drive  the  clouds  along  the  sky, 
But  may  all  nature  smile  with  aspect  boon, 
When  in  the  heavens  thou  show'st  thy  face,  oh, 
Harvest  Moon ! 

'Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies, 
The  husbandman,  with  sleep-seal'd  eyes ; 
He  dreams  of  crowded  barns,  and  round 
The  yard  he  hears  the  flail  resound ; 
Oh  !  may  no  hurricane  destroy 
His  visionary  views  of  joy  ! 
God  of  the  Winds  !  oh,  hear  his  humble  pray'r, 
And  while  the  moon  of  harvest  shines,  thy  blus- 
tering whirlwind  spare. 


f 
324  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Sons  of  luxury,  to  you 

Leave  I  Sleep's  dull  power  to  woo : 

Press  ye  still  the  downy  bed, 

While  feverish  dreams  surround  your  head ; 

I  will  seek  the  woodland  glade, 

Penetrate  the  thickest  shade, 

Wrapp'd  in  Contemplation's  dreams, 

Musing  high  on  holy  themes, 

While  on  the  gale 

Shall  softly  sail 
The  nightingale's  enchanting  tune, 

And  oft  my  eyes 

Shall  grateful  rise 
To  thee,  the  modest  Harvest  Moon ! 


SONG. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  FOURTEEN. 
I. 

SOFTLY,  softly  blow,  ye  breezes, 

Gently  o'er  my  Edwy  fly ! 
Lo  !  he  slumbers,  slumbers  sweetly  ; 
Softly,  zephyrs,  pass  him  by ! 
My  love  is  asleep, 
He  lies  by  the  deep, 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

II. 

I  have  cover'd  him  with  rushes, 
Water-flags,  and  branches  dry. 


SONG. 

Edwy,  long  have  been  thy  slumbers; 
Edwy,  Edwy,  ope  thine  eye  ! 

My  love  is  asleep, 

He  lies  by  the  deep, 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

III. 

Still  he  sleeps ;  he  will  not  waken, 

Fastly  closed  is  his  eye  ; 
Paler  is  his  cheek,  and  chiller 
Than  the  icy  moon  on  high. 
Alas  !  he  is  dead, 
He  has  chose  his  death-bed 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

IV. 

Is  it,  is  it  so,  my  Edwy  ? 

Will  thy  slumbers  never  fly  ? 
Couldst  thou  think  I  would  survive  thee  ? 
No,  my  love,  thou  bid'st  me  die. 
Thou  bid'st  me  seek 
Thy  death-bed  bleak 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

V. 

I  will  gently  kiss  thy  cold  lips, 

On  thy  breast  I'll  lay  my  head, 
And  the  winds  shall  sing  our  death-dirge, 
And  our  shroud  the  waters  spread ; 
The  moon  will  smile  sweet, 
And  the  wild  wave  will  beat, 
Oh !  so  softly  o'er  our  lonely  bed. 
28 


326  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


SHIPWRECKED   SOLITARY'S 
SONG 

TO    THE    NIGHT. 

THOU,  spirit  of  the  spangled  night ! 
I  woo  thee  from  the  watch-tower  high, 
Where  thou  dost  sit  to  guide  the  bark 
Of  lonely  mariner. 

The  winds  are  whistling  o'er  the  wolds, 
The  distant  main  is  moaning  low ; 
Come,  let  us  sit  and  weave  a  song — 
A  melancholy  song ! 

Sweet  is  the  scented  gale  of  mom, 
And  sweet  the  noontide's  fervid  beam, 
But  sweeter  far  the  solemn  calm, 

That  marks  thy  mournful  reign. 

I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year, 
And  never  human  voice  have  heard ; 
I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year 
A  solitary  man. 

And  I  have  linger'd  in  the  shade, 
From  sultry  noon's  hot  beam ;  and  I 


THE    SHIPWRECKED    SOLITARY'S    SONG.    32' 

Have  knelt  before  my  wicker  door, 
To  sing  my  evening  song. 

And  I  have  hail'd  the  gray  morn  high, 
On  the  blue  mountain's  misty  brow, 
And  tried  to  tune  my  little  reed 
To  hymns  of  harmony. 

But  never  could  I  tune  my  reed, 
At  morn,  or  noon,  or  eve,  so  sweet, 
As  when  upon  the  ocean  shore 

I  hail'd  thy  star-beam  mild. 

The  day-spring  brings  not  joy  to  me, 
The  moon  it  whispers  not  of  peace  ; 
But  oh  !  when  darkness  robes  the  heavens, 
My  woes  are  mix'd  with  joy. 

And  then  I  talk,  and  often  think 
^Erial  voices  answer  me  ; 
And  oh  !  I  am  not  then  alone — 
A  solitary  man. 

And  when  the  blustering  winter  winds 
Howl  in  the  woods  that  clothe  my  cave, 
I  lay  me  on  my  lonely  mat, 

And  pleasant  are  my  dreams. 

And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  wife ; 
And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  child ; 
She  gives  me  back  my  little  home, 
And  all  its  placid  joys. 


328  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Then  hateful  is  the  morning  hour, 
That  calls  me  from  the  dream  of  bliss, 
To  find  myself  still  lone,  and  hear 

The  same  dull  sounds  again. 

The  deep-toned  winds,  the  moaning  sea, 
The  whispering  of  the  boding  trees, 
The  brook's  eternal  flow,  and  oft 

The  Condor's  hollow  scream. 


SONNET. 

SWEET  to  the  gay  of  heart  is  Summer's  smile, 

Sweet  the  wild  music  of  the  laughing  Spring ; 
But  ah !  my  soul  far  other  scenes  beguile, 

Where  gloomy  storms  their  sullen  shadows  fling. 
Is  it  for  me  to  strike  the  Idalian  string — 

Raise  the  soft  music  of  the  warbling  wire, 
While  in  my  ears  the  howls  of  furies  ring 

And  melancholy  wastes  the  vital  fire  ?       [cave 
Away  with  thoughts  like  these — To  some  lone 

Where  howls  the  shrill  blast,  and  where  sweeps 

the  wave, 
Direct  my  steps ;  there,  in  the  lonely  drear, 

I'll  sit  remote  from  worldlv  noise,  and  muse 

Till  through  my  sou.  snail  Peace  her  balm  infuse, 
And  whispei  sounds  ot  comiort  in  mine  ear. 


MY    OWN    CHARACTER.  329 

MY   OWN   CHARACTER. 

Addressed  (during  Illness}  to  a  Lady. 


DEAR  Fanny,  I  mean,  now  I'm  laid  on  the  shelf, 

To  give  you  a  sketch — ay,  a  sketch  of  myself. 

'Tis  a  pitiful  subject,  I  frankly  confess, 

And  one  it  would  puzzle  a  painter  to  dress ; 

But  however,  here  goes,  and  as  sure  as  a  gun, 

I'll  tell  all  my  faults  like  a  penitent  nun  ; 

For  I  know,  for  my  Fanny,  before  I  address  her, 

She  wont  be  a  cynical  father  confessor. 

Come,  come,  'twill  not  do  !  put  that  purling  brow 

down ; 

You  can't,  for  the  soul  of  you,  learn  how  to  frown. 
Well,  first  I  premise,  it's  my  honest  conviction, 
That  my  breast  is  a  chaos  of  all  contradiction  ; 
Religious — Deistic — now  loyal  and  warm ; 
Then  a  dagger-drawn  democrat  hot  for  reform : 
This  moment  a  fop,  that,  sententious  as  Titus ; 
Democritus  now,  and  anon  Heraclitus ;       [rattle  ; 
Now  laughing  and  pleased,  like  a  child  with  a 
Then  vex'd  to  the  soul  with  impertinent  tattle ; 
Now  moody  and  sad,  now  unthinking  and  gay, 
To  all  points  of  the  conpass  I  veer  in  a  day. 

I'm  proud  and  disdainful  to  Fortune's  gay  child, 
But  to  Poverty's  offspring  submissive  and  mild : 

28* 


330  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

As  rude  as  a  boor,  and  as  rough  in  dispute ; 
Then  as  for  politeness — oh  !  dear — I'm  a  brute  ! 
I  show  no  respect  where  I  never  can  feel  it ; 
And  as  for  contempt,  take  no  pains  to  conceal  it ; 
And  so  in  the  suite,  by  these  laudable  ends, 
I've  a  great  many  foes,  and  a  very  few  friends. 

And  yet,  my  dear  Fanny,  there  are  who  can  feel 
That  this  proud  heart  of  mine  is  not  fashion 'd  like 

steel. 

It  can  love  (can  it  not  ?) — it  can  hate,  I  am  sure  ; 
And  it's  friendly  enough,  though  in  friends  it  be 

poor. 

For  itself  though  it  bleed  not,  for  others  it  bleeds ; 
If  it  have  not  ripe  virtues,  I'm  sure  it's  the  seeds  : 
And  though  far  from  faultless,  or  even  so-so, 
I  think  it  may  pass  as  our  worldly  things  go. 

Well,  I've  told  you  my  frailties  without  any  gloss  ; 
Then  as  to  my  virtues,  I'm  quite  at  a  loss  ! 
I  think  I'm  devout,  and  yet  I  can't  say, 
But  in  process  of  time  I  may  get  the  wrong  way. 
I'm  a  general  lover,  if  that's  commendation, 
And  yet  can't  withstand,  you  know  whose  fasci- 
nation. 

But  I  find  that  amidst  all  my  tricks  and  devices, 
In  fishing  for  virtues,  I'm  pulling  up  vices ; 
So  as  for  the  good,  why,  if  I  possess  it, 
I  am  not  yet  learned  enough  to  express  it. 

You  yourself  must  examine  the  lovelier  side, 
And  after  your  every  art  you  have  tried, 


ON   DISAPPOINTMENT.  331 

Whatever  my  faults,  I  may  venture  to  say, 

Hypocrisy  never  will  come  in  your  way. 

I  am  upright,  I  hope  ;  I  am  downright,  I'm  clear ! 

And  I  think  my  worst  foe  must  allow  I'm  sincere ; 

And  if  ever  sincerity  glow'd  in  my  breast, 

'Tis  now  when  I  swear *  * 


ODE 

ON  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

1. 

COME,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Not  in  thy  terrors  clad ; 
Come  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  guise ; 
Thy  chastening  rod  but  terrifies 
The  restless  and  the  bad. 
But  I  recline 

Beneath  thy  shrine,  [twine. 

And  round  my  brow  resign 'd,  thy  peaceful  cypress 

2. 

Though  Fancy  flies  away 
Before  thy  hollow  tread, 
Yet  meditation,  in  her  cell, 
Hears  with  faint  eye,  the  lingering  knell, 
That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead ; 
And  though  the  tear 
By  chance  appear,  [here. 

Yet  she  can  smile,  and  say,  My  all  was  not  laid 


332  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 


Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Though  from  Hope's  summit  hurl'd, 
Still,  rigid  Nurse,  thou  art  forgiven, 
For  thou  severe  were  sent  from  heaven 
To  wean  me  from  the  world  : 
To  turn  my  eye 
From  vanity, 
And  point  to  scenes  of  bliss  that  never,  never  die. 

4. 

What  is  this  passing  scene  ? 

A  peevish  April  day  ! 
A  little  sun — a  little  rain, 
And  then  night  sweeps  along  the  plain, 
And  all  things  fade  away. 
Man  (soon  discuss'd) 
Yields  up  his  trust, 
And  all  his  hopes  and  fears  lie  with  him  in  the  dust. 

5. 

Oh,  what  is  Beauty's  power? 

It  flourishes  and  dies ; 
Will  the  cold  earth  its  silence  break, 
To  tell  how  soft  how  smooth  a  cheek 
Beneath  its  surface  lies  ? 
Mute,  mute  is  all 
O'er  Beauty's  fall ; 

Her  praise  resounds  no  more  when  mantled  in  her 
pall. 


ON    DISAPPOINTMENT.  333 


The  most  beloved  on  earth 

Not  long  survives  to-day  ; 
So  music  past  is  obsolete, 
And  yet  'twas  sweet,  'twas  passing  sweet, 
But  now  'tis  gone  away. 
Thus  does  the  shade 
In  memory  fade, 
When  in  forsaken  tomb  the  form  beloved  is  laid. 

7. 

Then  since  this  world  is  vain, 

And  volatile,  and  fleet, 
Why  should  I  lay  up  earthly  joys, 
Where  dust  corrupts,  and  moth  destroys, 
And  cares  and  sorrows  eat  ? 
Why  fly  from  ill 
With  anxious  skill, 

When  soon  this  hand  will  freeze,  this  throbbing 
heart  be  still  ? 

8. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Thou  art  not  stern  to  me  ; 
Sad  Monitress !  I  own  thy  sway, 
A  votary  sad  in  early  day, 
I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
From  sun  to  sun 
My  race  will  run, 
I  only  bow,  and  say,  My  God,  thy  will  be  done  ! 


334  H.    K.    WHITE  S    POEMS. 

On  another  paper  are  a  few  lines,  written  pro- 
bably in  the  freshness  of  his  disappointment. 

I  DREAM  no  more — The  vision  flies  away, 

And  Disappointment     *     *     *     * 

There  fell  my  hopes — I  lost  my  all  in  this, 

My  cherish'd  all  of  visionary  bliss. 

Now  hope  farewell,  farewell  all  joys  below  ; 

Now  welcome  sorrow,  and  now  welcome  wo. 

Plunge  me  in  glooms     *     *     *     * 

His  health  soon  sunk  under  these  habits;  he 
became  pale  and  thin,  and  at  length  had  a  sharp 
fit  of  sickness.  On  his  recovery  he  wrote  the 
following  lines  in  the  church-yard  of  his  favourite 
village. 


LINES 

WRITTEN    IN    WILFORD    CHURCH-YARD, 
ON  RECOVERY   PROM  SICKNESS. 

HERE  would  I  wish  to  sleep. — This  is  the  spot 
Which  I  have  long  mark'd  out  to  lay  my  bones  in ; 
Tired  out  and  wearied  with  the  riotous  world, 
Beneath  this  Yew  I  would  be  sepulchred. 
It  is  a  lovely  spot !  the  sultry  sun, 


LINES.  335 

From  his  meridian  height,  endeavours  vainly 
To  pierce  the  shadowy  foliage,  while  the  zephyr 
Comes  wafting  gently  o'er  the  rippling  Trent, 
And  plays  about  my  wan  cheek.     'Tis  a  nook 
Most  pleasant.     Such  a  one  perchance,  did  Gray 
Frequent,  as  with  a  vagrant  muse  he  wanton'd. 

Come,  I  will  sit  me  down  and  meditate, 

For  I  am  wearied  with  my  summer's  walk ; 

And  here  I  may  repose  in  silent  ease ; 

And  thus,  perchance,  when  life's  sad  journey's  o'er, 

My  harass'd  soul,  in  this  same  spot,  may  find 

The  haven  of  its  rest — beneath  this  sod 

Perchance  may  sleep  it  sweetly,  sound  as  death. 

I  would  not  have  my  corpse  cemented  down 
With  brick  and  stone,  defrauding  the  poor  earth- 
worm 

Of  its  predestined  dues ;  no,  I  would  lie 
Beneath  a  little  hillock,  grass-o'ergrown, 
Swathed  down  withoziers,  just  as  sleep  the  cottiers. 
Yet  may  not  undistinguished  be  my  grave ; 
But  there  at  eve  may  some  congenial  soul 
Duly  resort,  and  shed  a  pious  tear, 
The  good  man's  benison — no  more  I  ask. 
And,  oh  !  (if  heavenly  beings  may  look  down 
From  where,  with  cherubim,  inspired  they  sit, 
Upon  this  little  dim-discover'd  spot, 
The  earth,)  then  will  I  cast  a  glance  below, . 
On  him  who  thus  my  ashes  shall  embalm ; 
And  I  will  weep  too,  and  will  bless  the  wanderer. 
Wishing  he  may  not  long  be  doom'd  to  pine 


336  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

In  this  low-thoughted  world  of  darkling  wo, 
But  that,  ere  long,  he  reach  his  kindred  skies. 

Yet  'twas  a  silly  thought,  as  if  the  body, 
Mouldering  beneath  the  surface  of  the  earth, 
Could  taste  the  sweets  of  summer  scenery, 
And  feel  the  freshness  of  the  balmy  breeze  ! 
Yet  nature  speaks  within  the  human  bosom, 
And,  spite  of  reason,  bids  it  look  beyond 
His  narrow  verge  of  being,  and  provide 
A  decent  residence  for  its  clayey  shell, 
Endear'd  to  it  by  time.     And  who  would  lay 
His  body  in  the  city  burial-place, 
To  be  thrown  up  again  by  some  rude  Sexton, 
And  yield  its  narrow  house  another  tenant, 
Ere  the  moist  flesh  had  mingled  with  the  dust, 
Ere  the  tenacious  hair  had  left  the  scalp, 
Exposed  to  insult  lewd,  and  wantonness  ? 
No,  I  will  lay  me  in  the  village  ground ; 
There  are  the  dead  respected.     The  poor  hind, 
Unlettered  as  he  is,  would  scorn  to  invade 
The  silent  resting-place  of  death.     I've  seen 
The  labourer,  returning  from  his  toil, 
Here  stay  his  steps,  and  call  his  children  round, 
And  slowly  spell  the  rudely  sculptured  rhymes, 
And,  in  his  rustic  manner,  moralize. 
I've  mark'd  with  what  a  silent  awe  he'd  spoken, 
With  head  uncover'd,  his  respectful  manner, 
And  all  the  honours  which  he  paid  the  grave, 
And  thought  on  cities,  where  even  cemeteries, 
Bestrew 'd  with  all  the  emblems  of  mortality, 
Are  not  protected  from  the  drunken  insolence 


H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS.  337 

Of  wassailers  profane,  and  wanton  havoc. 

Grant,  Heaven,  that  here  my  pilgrimage  may  close ! 

Yet,  if  this  be  denied,  where'er  my  bones 

May  lie — or  in  the  city's  crowded  bounds, 

Or  scatter'd  wide  o'er  the  huge  sweep  of  waters, 

Or  left  a  prey  on  some  deserted  shore 

To  the  rapacious  cormorant, — yet  still, 

(For  why  should  sober  reason  cast  away     [spirit 

A  thought  which  soothes  the  soul  ?) — yet  still  my 

Shall  wing  its  way  to  these  my  native  regions, 

And  hover  o'er  this  spot.     Oh,  then  I'll  think 

Of  times  when  I  was  seated  'neath  this  yew 

In  solemn  rumination  ;  and  will  smile 

"With  joy  that  I  have  got  my  long'd  release. 


FRAGMENTS. 


THESE  FRAGMENTS  ARE  HENRY'S  LATEST  COM- 
POSITIONS ;  AND  WERE,  FOR  THE  MOST  PART,  WRIT- 
TEN UPON  THE  BACK  OF  HIS  MATHEMATICAL  PAPERS, 
DURING  THE  FEW  MOMENTS  OF  THE  LAST  YEAR  OF 
HIS  LIFE,  IN  WHICH  HE  SUFFERED  HIMSELF  TO 
FOLLOW  THE  IMPULSE  OF  HIS  GENIUS. 


THE   CHRISTIAD, 

A  DIVINE  POEM. 

BOOK  I. 

I. 

I  SING  the  Cross ! — Ye  white-robed  angel  choirs, 
Who  know  the  chords  of  harmony  to  sweep, 

Ye  who  o'er  holy  David's  varying  wires 

Were  wont,  of  old,  your  hovering  watch  to  keep, 
Oh,  now  descend  !  and  with  your  harpings  deep, 

Pouring  sublime  the  full  symphonious  stream 
Of  music,  such  as  soothes  the  saint's  last  sleep, 
338 


THE    CHRISTIAD.  339 

AWEKC  my  slumbering  spirit  from  its  dream, 
And  teach  me  how  to  exalt  the  high  mysterious 
theme. 

II. 

Mourn !  Salem,  mourn !  low  lies  thine  humbled 

state,  [ground ! 

Thy  glittering  fanes  are  levell'd  with  the 

Fallen  is  thy  pride  ! — Thine  halls  are  desolate  ! 

Where  erst  was  heard  the  timbrel's  sprightly 

sound, 

And  frolic  pleasures  tripp'd  the  nightly  round, 

There  breeds  the  wild  fox  lonely, — and  aghast 

Stands  the  mute  pilgrim  at  the  void  profound, 

Unbroke  by  noise,  save  when  the  hurrying  blast 

Sighs,  like  a  spirit,  deep  along  the  cheerless  waste. 

III. 

It  is  for  this,  proud  Solyma  !  thy  towers 

Lie  crumbling  in  the  dust ;  for  this  forlorn 
Thy  genius  wails  along  thy  desert  bowers, 
While  stern  Destruction  laughs,  as  if  in  scorn, 
That  thou  didst  dare  insult  God's  eldest  born ; 
And,  with  most  bitter  persecuting  ire, 

Pursued  his  footsteps  till  the  last  day-dawn 
Rose  on  his  fortunes — and  thou  saw'st  the  fire 
That  came  to  light  the  world,  in  one  great  flash 
expire. 

IV. 

Oh !  for  a  pencil  dipp'd  in  living  light, 
To  paint  the  agonies  that  Jesus  bore  ! 


340  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Oh !  for  the  long-lost  harp  of  Jesse's  might, 
To  hymn  the  Saviour's  praise  from  shore  to 

shore ; 

While  seraph  hosts  the  lofty  paean  pour, 
And  Heaven  enraptured  lists  the  loud  acclaim ! 
May  a  frail  mortal  dare  the  theme  explore  ? 
May  he  to  human  ears  his  weak  song  frame  ? 
Oh !  may  he  dare  to  sing  Messiah's  glorious  name? 

V. 

Spirits  of  pity  !  mild  Crusaders,  come  ! 

Buoyant  on  clouds  around  your  minstrel  float, 
And  give  him  eloquence  who  else  were  dumb, 

And  raise  to  feeling  and  to  fire  his  note ! 

And  thou,  Urania !  who  dost  still  devote 
Thy  nights  and  days  to  God's  eternal  shrine, 

Whose  mild  eyes  'lumined  what  Isaiah  wrote, 
Throw  o'er  thy  Bard  that  solemn  stole  of  thine, 
And  clothe  him  for  the  fight  with  energy  divine. 

VI. 

When  from  the  temple's  lofty  summit  prone, 
Satan  o'ercome,fell  down ;  and 'throned  there, 

The  Son  of  God  confess'd,  in  splendor  shone ; 
Swift  as  the  glancing  sunbeam  cuts  the  air, 
Mad  with  defeat,  and  yelling  his  despair, 

*  *  #  # 

Fled  the  stern  king  of  Hell — and  with  the 


Of  gliding  meteors,  ominous  and  red,       [head. 
Shot  athwart  the  clouds  that  gather'd  round  his 


THE    CHRISTIAD.  341 

VII. 

Right  o'er  the  Euxine,  and  that  gulf  which  late 

The  rude  Massagetse  adored,  he  bent 

His  northering  course,  while  round,  in  dusky 

state,  [augment ; 

The  assembling  fiends  their  summon'd  troops 

Clothed  in  dark  mists,  upon  their  way  they 

went, 

While,  as  they  pass'd  to  regions  more  severe, 
The    Lapland  sorcerer  swell'd  with    loud 

lament 

The  solitary  gale,  and,  fill'd  with  fear, 
The  howling  dogs  bespoke  unholy  spirits  near. 

VIII. 

Where  the  North  Pole,  in  moody  solitude, 
Spreads  her  huge  tracks  and  frozen  wastes 

around, 

There  ice-rocks  piled  aloft,  in  order  rude, 
Form  a  gigantic  hall,  where  never  sound 
Startled  dull  Silence'  ear,  save  when  profound 
The  smoke-frost  mutter'd :  there  drear  Cold  for 
aye  [mound, 

Thrones  him, — and,  fix'd  on  his  primaeval 
Ruin,  the  giant,  sits ;  while  stern  Dismay 
Stalks  like  some  wo-struck  man  along  the  desert 
way. 

IX. 

In  that  drear  spot,  grim  Desolation's  lair, 
No  sweet  remain  of  life  ericheers  the  sight ; 
29* 


342  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

The  dancing  heart's  blood  in  an  instant  there 

Would  freeze  to  marble. — Mingling  day  and 

night  [light,) 

(Sweet  interchange,  which  makes  our  labours 

Are  there  unknown ;  while  in  the  summer  skies 

The  sun  rolls  ceaseless  round  his  heavenly 

height, 

Nor  ever  sets  till  from  the  scene  she  flies, 
And  leaves  the  long  bleak  night  of  half  the  year 
to  rise. 

X. 

'Twas  there,  yet  shuddering  from  the  burning 
lake, 

Satan  had  fix'd  their  next  consistory, 
When  parting  last  he  fondly  hoped  to  shake 

Messiah's  constancy, — and  thus  to  free 

The  powers  of  darkness  from  the  dread  decree 
Of  bondage  brought  by  him,  and  circumvent 

The  unerring  ways  of  Him  whose  eye  can  see 
The  womb  of  Time,  and,  in  its  embryo  pent, 
Discern  the  colours  clear  of  every  dark  event. 

XL 

Here  the  stern  monarch  stay'd  his  rapid  flight, 
And  his  thick  hosts,  as  with  a  jetty  pall, 

Hovering  obscured  the  north  star's  peaceful  light 
Waiting  on  wing  their  haughty  chieftain's 

call. 
He,  meanwhile,  downward,  with  a  sullen  fall, 

Dropp'd  on  the  echoing  ice.     Instant  the  sound 


THE    CHRISTIAD.  343 

Of  their  broad  vans  was  hush'd,  and  o'er  the 

hall, 

Vast  and  obscure,  the  gloomy  cohorts  bound, 
Till,  wedged  in  ranks,  the  seat  of  Satan  they  sur- 
round. 

XII. 

High  on  a  solium  of  the  solid  wave,        [frost, 
Prank'd  with  rude  shapes  by  the  fantastic 
He  stood  in  silence ; — now  keen  thoughts  en- 
grave 

Dark  figures  on  his  front ;  and,  tempest-toss'd, 
He  fears  to  say  that  every  hope  is  lost. 
Meanwhile  the  multitude  as  death  are  mute : 

So,  ere  the  tempest  on  Malacca's  coast, 
Sweet  Quiet,  gently  touching  her  soft  lute, 
Sings  to  the  whisperingwaves  the  prelude  to  dis- 
pute. 

XIII. 

At  length  collected,  o'er  the  dark  Divan 

The  arch-fiend  glanced,  as  by  the  Boreal  blaze 
Their  downcast  brows  were  seen,  and  thus  be- 
gan [days 
His  fierce  harangue  : — "  Spirits  !  our  better 
Are  now  elapsed ;  Moloch  and  Belial's  praise 
Shall  sound  no  more  in  groves  by  myriads  trod. 
Lo!  the  light  breaks! — The  astonished  na- 
tions gaze ! 

For  us  is  lifted  high  the  avenging  rod ! 
For,  spirits,  this  is  He, — this  is  the  Son  of  God. 


344  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

XIV. 

What  then ! — shall  Satan's  spirit  crouch  to  fear  ? 

Shall  he  who  shook  the  pillars  of  God's  reign 

Drop  from  his  unnerved  arm  the  hostile  spear  ? 

Madness !     The  very  thought  would  make 

me  fain 

To  tear  the  spanglets  from  yon  gaudy  plain, 

And  hurl  them  at  their  Maker ! — Fix'd  as  fate 

I  am  his  Foe  ! — Yea,  though  his  pride  should 

deign 

To  soothe  mine  ire  with  half  his  regal  state, 
Still  would  I  bum  with  fix'd,  unalterable  hate. 

XV. 

Now  hear  the  issue  of  my  curs'd  emprize, 

When  from  our  last  sad  synod  I  took  flight, 
Buoy'd  with   false  hopes,  in  some  deep-laid 

disguise, 

To  tempt  this  vaunted  Holy  One  to  write 
His  own  self-condemnation ;  in  the  plight 
Of  aged  man  in  the  lone  wilderness, 

Gathering  a  few  stray  sticks,  I  met  his  sight, 
And,  leaning  on  my  staff,  seem'd  much  to  guess 
What  cause  could  mortal  bring  to  that  forlorn 
recess. 

XVI.' 

Then  thus  in  homely  guise  I  featly  framed 
My  lowly  speech: — 'Good  Sir,  what  leads 
this  way  [blamed 

Your  wandering  steps  ?  must  hapless  chance  be 


THE    CHRISTIAD.  345 

That  you  so  far  from  haunt  of  mortals  stray  ? 

Here  have  I  dwelt  for  many  a  lingering  day, 

Nor  trace  of  man  have  seen  j  but  how !  me- 

thought  [ray 

Thou  wert  the  youth  on  whom  God's  holy 

I  saw  descend  in  Jordan,  when  John  taught 

That  he  to  fallen  man  the  saving  promise  brought.' 

XVII. 

'  I  am  that  man,'  said  Jesus,  <  I  am  He  !     [feet 
But  truce  to  questions — Canst  thou  point  my 

To  some  low  hut,  if  haply  such  there  be 
In  this  wild  labyrinth,  where  I  may  meet 
With  homely  greeting,  and  may  sit  and  eat ; 

For  forty  days  I  have  tarried  fasting  here, 
Hid  in  the  dark  glens  of  this  lone  retreat, 

And  now  I  hunger ;  and  my  fainting  ear 
Longs  much  to  greet  the  sound  of  fountains  gush- 
ing near.' 

XVIII. 

Then  thus  I  answer'd  wily : — '  If,  indeed, 

Son  of  our  God  thou  be'st,  what  need  to  seek 
For  food    from    men? — Lo !    on    these    flint 

stones  feed, 

Bid  them  be  bread  !  Open  thy  lips  and  speak, 
And  living  rills  from  yon  parch'd  rock  will 

break.' 
Instant  as  I  had  spoke,  his  piercing  eye 

Fix'd  on  my  face; — the  blood  forsook  my 
cheek, 


346  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

I  could  not  bear  his  gaze ; — my  mask  slipp'd  by ; 
I  would  have  shunn'd  his  look,  but  had  not  power 
to  fly. 

XIX. 

Then  he  rebuked  me  with  the  holy  word — 
Accursed  sounds  !  but  now  my  native  pride 

Return'd,  and  by  no  foolish  qualm  deterr'd, 
I  bore  him  from  the  mountain's  woody  side, 
Up  to  the  summit,  where  extending  wide 

Kingdoms  and  cities,  palaces  and  fanes,  [cried, 
Bright  sparkling  in  the  sunbeams,  were  des- 

And  in  gay  dance,  amid  luxuriant  plains, 
Tripp'd  to  the  jocund  reed  the  emasculated  swains. 

XX. 

« Behold,'  I  cried, « these  glories  !  scenes  divine ! 

Thou  whose  sad  prime  in  pining  want  decays 
And  these,  0  rapture  !  these  shall  all  be  thine, 

If  thou  wilt  give  to  me,  not  God,  the  praise. 

Hath  he  not  given  to  indigence  thy  days  ? 
Is  not  thy  portion  peril  here  and  pain  ?  [ways ! 

Oh !  leave  his  temples,  shun  his  wounding 
Seize  the  tiara !  these  mean  weeds  disdain, 
Kneel,  kneel,  thou  man  of  wo,  and  peace  and 
splendor  gain.' 

XXI. 

'  Is  it  not  written,'  sternly  he  replied,  [he  spake, 
*  Tempt  not  the  Lord  thy  God !'  Frowning 
And  instant  sounds,  as  of  the  ocean  tide, 


THE    CHRISTIAD.  347 

Rose,  and  the  whirlwind  from  its  prison  brake, 
And  caught  me  up  aloft,  till  in  one  flake, 
The  sidelong  volley  met  my  swift  career, 
And  smote  me   earthward. — Jove   himself 

might  quake 

At  such  a  fall ;  my  sinews  crack'd,  and  near, 
Obscure  and  dizzy  sounds  seem'd  ringing  in  mine 
ear. 

XXII. 

Senseless  and  stunn'd  I  lay ;  till,  casting  round 
My  half  unconscious  gaze,  I  saw  the  foe 

Borne  on  a  car  of  roses  to  the  ground, 
By  volant  angels  ;  and  as  sailing  slow 
He  sunk,  the  hoary  battlement  below, 

While  on  the  tall  spire  slept  the  slant  sunbeam, 
Sweet  on  the  enamour 'd  zephyr  was  the  flow 

Of   heavenly  instruments.     Such  strains    oft 

seem,  [dream. 

On  star-light  hill,  to  soothe  the  Syrian  shepherd's 

XXIII. 

I  saw  blaspheming.  Hate  rene  w'd  my  strength ; 
I  smote  the  ether  with  my  iron  wing, 

And  left  the  accursed  scene. — Arrived  at  length 
In  these  drear  halls,  to  ye,  my  peers  !  I  bring 
The  tidings  of  defeat.  Hell's  haughty  king 

Thrice  vanquish'd,  baffled,  smitten,  and  dis- 
may'd  ! 

0  shame  !  Is  this  the  hero  who  could  fling 
Defiance  at  his  Maker,  while  array'd,  [play'd' 
High  o'er  the  walls  of  light  rebellion's  banners 


348  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

XXIV. 

Yet  shall  not  Heaven's  bland  minions  triumph 

long; 

Hell  yet  shall  have  revenge. — 0  glorious  sight, 
Prophetic  visions  on  my  fancy  throng, 
I  see  wild  agony's  lean  finger  write 
Sad  figures  on  his  forehead  ! — Keenly  bright 
Revenge's  flambeau  burns  !  Now  in  his  eyes 

Stand  the  hot  tears, — immantled  in  the  night, 
Lo  !  he  retires  to  mourn  ! — I  hear  his  cries  ! 
He  faints — he  falls — and  lo  !  'tis  true,  ye  powers, 
he  dies." 

XXV. 

Thus  spake  the  chieftain, — and  as  if  he  view'd 
The  scene  he  pictured,  with  his  foot  advanced 
And  chest  inflated,  motionless  he  stood, 
While  under  his  uplifted  shield  he  glanced, 
With  straining  eye-ball  fix'd,  like  one  en- 
tranced, 

On  viewless  air ; — thither  the  dark  platoon 
Gazed  wondering,  nothing  seen,  save  when 

there  danced 

The  northern  flash,  or  fiend  late  fled  from  noon, 
Darken'd  the  disk  of  the  descending  moon. 

XXVI. 

Silence  crept  stilly  through  the  ranks. — The 

breeze 

Spake  most  distinctly.     As  the  sailor  stands, 
When  all  the  midnight  gasping  from  the  seas 


THE    CHRISTIAD.  349 

Break  boding  sobs,  and  to  his  sight  expands 
High  on  the  shrouds  the  spirit  that  commands 
The  ocean-farer's  life  ;  so  stiff — so  sear 

Stood  each  dark  power ; — while  through  their 

numerous  bands 

Beat  not  one  heart,  and  mingling  hope  and  fear 
Now  told  them  all  was  lost,  now  bade  revenge 
appear. 

XXVII. 

One  there  was  there,  whose  loud  defying  tongue 
Nor  hope  nor  fear  had  silenced,  but  the  swell 

Of  over-boiling  malice.     Utterance  long 

His  passion  mock'd,  and  long  he  strove  to  tell 
His  labouring  ire  ;  still  syllable  none  fell 

From  his  pale  quivering  lip,  but  died  away 
For  very  fury  ;  from  each  hollow  cell 

Half  sprang  his  eyes,  that  cast  a  flamy  ray, 
And  *  *    '        *  *  * 

XXVIII. 

«  This  comes,"  at  length  burst  from  the  furious 

chief, 

"This  comes  of  distant  counsels !  Here  behold 
The  fruits  of  wily  cunning !  the  relief 
Which  coward  policy  would  fain  unfold, 
To    soothe  the  powers    that  warr'd  with 

Heaven  of  old ! 

0  wise  !  0  potent !  0  sagacious  snare  ! 
And  lo  !  our  prince — the  mighty  and  the  bold, 
30 


350  H.  K.  WHITK'S  POEMS. 

There  stands  he,  spell-struck,  gaping  at  the  air, 
While  Heaven  subverts  his  reign,  and  plants  her 
standard  there." 

XXIX. 

Here,  as  recovered,  Satan  fix'd  his  eye 

Full  on  the  speaker ;  dark  it  was  and  stern ; 

He  wrapp'd  his  black  vest  round  him  gloomily, 

And  stood  like  one  whom  weightiest  thoughts 

concern. 

Him  Moloch  mark'd,  and  strove  again  to  turn 

His  soul  to  rage.     "Behold,  behold,"  he  cried, 

"  The  lord  of  Hell,  who  bade  these  legions 

spurn 

Almighty  rule — behold  he  lays  aside    [defied." 
The  spear  of  just  revenge,  and  shrinks,  by  man 

XXX. 

Thus  ended  Moloch,  and  his  [burning]  tongue 
Hung  quivering,  as  if  [mad]  to  quench  its 

heat 

In  slaughter.     So,  his  native  wilds  among, 
The  famish'd  tiger'pants,  when,  near  his  seat, 
Press'd  on  the  sands,  he  marks  the  traveller's 

feet. 

Instant  low  murmurs  rose,  and  many  a  sword 
Had  from  its  scabbard  sprung;  but  toward 

the  seat 

Of  the  arch-fiend  all  turn'd  with  one  accord, 
As  loud  he  thus  harangued  the  sanguinary  horde. 


THE    CHRISTIAD.  351 

"  Ye  powers  of  Hell,  I  am  no  coward.  I  proved 
this  of  old :  who  led  your  forces  against  the  armies 
of  Jehovah?  Who  coped  with  Ithuriel  and  the 
thunders  of  the  Almighty  ?  Who,  when  stunned 
and  confused  ye  lay  on  the  burning  lake,  who  first 
awoke,  and  collected  your  scattered  powers  ?  And 
who  led  you  across  the  unfathomable  abyss  to  this 
delightful  world,  and  established  that  reign  here 
which  now  totters  to  its  base  ?  How,  therefore, 
dares  yon  treacherous  fiend  to  cast  a  stain  on  Sa- 
tan's bravery  ?  he  who  preys  only  on  the  defence- 
less— who  sucks  the  blood  of  infants,  and  delights 
only  in  acts  of  ignoble  cruelty  and  unequal  con- 
tention. Away  with  the  boaster  who  never  joins 
in  action,  but,  like  a  cormorant,  hovers  over  the 
field,  to  feed  upon  the  wounded,  and  overwhelm 
the  dying.  True  bravery  is  as  remote  from  rash- 
ness as  from  hesitation ;  let  us  counsel  coolly,  but 
let  us  execute  our  counselled  purposes  determi- 
nately.  In  power  we  have  learned,  by  that  ex- 
periment which  lost  us  Heaven,  that  we  are  in- 
ferior to  the  Thunder-bearer: — In  subtlety — in 
subtlety  alone  we  are  his  equals.  Open  war  is 
impossible. 


Thus  we  shall  pierce  our  Conqueror,  through 
the  race 

Which  as  himself  he  loves ;  thus  if  we  fall, 
We  fall  not  with  the  anguish,  the  disgrace 

Of  falling  unrevenged.     The  stirring  call 


352  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Of  vengeance  wrings  within  me !  Warriors 

all, 

The  word  is  vengeance,  and  the  spur  despair. 
Away   with  coward  wiles ! — Death's  coal- 
black  pall 

Be  now  our  standard  ! — Be  our  torch  the  glare 
Of  cities  fired !  our  fifes,  the  shrieks  that  fill  the 
air !" 

Him  answering  rose  Mecashpim,  who  of  old, 
Far  in  the  silence  of  Chaldea's  groves,  [told 

Was  worshipp'd,  God  of  Fire,  with  charms  un- 
And  mystery.     His  wandering  spirit  roves, 
Now  vainly  searching  for  the  flame  it  loves, 

And  sits  and  mourns  like  some  white-robed  sire, 
Where  stood  his  temple,  and  where  fragrant 
cloves 

And  cinnamon  upheap'd  the  sacred  pyre, 
And  nightly  magi  watch'd  the  everlasting  fire. 

He  waved  his  robe  of  flame,  he  cross'd  his  breast, 
And  sighing — his  papyrus  scarf  survey'd, 

Woven  with  dark  characters ;  then  thus  address'd 
The  troubled  council. 


Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme 

With  self-rewarding  toil,  thus  far  have  sung 
Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 


THE    CHRISTIAD.  353 

The  lyre  which  I  in  early  days  have  strung ; 
And  now  my  spirits  faint,  and  I  have  hung 
The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour, 
On  the  dark  cypress !  and  the  strings  which 

rung 

With  Jesus'  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o'er, 
Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are 
heard  no  more. 

And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  re-animate  the  lay  ? 
Oh  !  thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men, 

Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray, 

One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day  ! 
One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree  ! 

I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way, 
And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee, 
Ere  I  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I 
am  free. 


30 


FRAGMENTS. 


I. 

SAW'ST  thou  that  light  ?  exclaim'd  the  youth,  and 

paused : 

Through  yon  dark  firs  it  glanced,  and  on  the  stream 
That  skirts  the  woods  it  for  a  moment  play'd. 
Again,  more  light  it  gleam'd, — or  does  some  sprite 
Delude  mine  eyes  with  shapes  of  wood  and  streams, 
And  lamp  far-beaming  thro  ugh  the  thicket's  gloom, 
As  from  some  bosom'd  cabin,  where  the  voice 
Of  revelry,  or  thrifty  watchfulness, 
Keeps  in  the  lights  at  this  unwonted  hour  ? 
No  sprite  deludes  mine  eyes, — the  beam  now  glows 
With  steady  lustre. — Can  it  be  the  moon, 
Who,  hidden  long  by  the  invidious  veil    [woods  ? 
That  blots  the    Heavens,  now  sets  behind  the 
No  moon  to-night  has  look'd  upon  the  sea 
Of  clouds  beneath  her,  answer'd  Rudiger, 
She  has  been  sleeping  with  Endymion. 


II. 

THE  pious  man, 

In  this  bad  world,  when  mists  and  couchant  storms 
Hide  Heaven's  fine  circlet,  springs  aloft  in  faith 

355 

\ 


356  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Above  the  clouds  that  threat  him,  to  the  fields 
Of  ether,  where  the  day  is  never  veil'd 
With  intervening  vapours  ;  and  looks  down 
Serene  upon  the  troublous  sea,  that  hides 
The  earth's  fair  breast,  that  sea  whose  nether  face 
To  grovelling  mortals  frowns  and  darkness  all ; 
But  on  whose  billowy  back,  from  man  conceal'd, 
The  glaring  sunbeam  plays. 


III. 

Lo  !  on  the  eastern  summit,  clad  in  gray, 
Morn,  like  a  horseman  girt  for  travel,  comes, 
And  from  his  tower  of  mist, 
Night's  watchman  hurries  down. 


IV. 

THERE  was  a  little  bird  upon  that  pile  j 

It  perch'd  upon  a  ruin'd  pinnacle, 

And  made  sweet  melody. 

The  song  was  soft,  yet  cheerful  and  most  clear, 

For  other  note  none  swell'd  the  air  but  his. 

It  seem'd  as  if  the  little  chorister, 

Sole  tenant  of  the  melancholy  pile, 

Were  a  lone  hermit,  outcast  from  his  kind, 

Yet  withal  cheerful— I  have  heard  the  note 

Echoing  so  lonely  o'er  the  aisle  forlorn, 

Much  musing — • 


FRAGMENTS.  357 

V. 

0  PALE  art  thou,  my  lamp,  and  faint 

Thy  melancholy  ray  : 
When  the  still  night's  unclouded  saint 

Is  walking  on  her  way. 
Through  my  lattice  leaf  embower 'd, 
Fair  she  sheds  her  shadowy  beam, 
And  o'er  my  silent  sacred  room, 
Casts  a  checker'd  twilight  gloom ; 
I  throw  aside  the  learned  sheet, 

1  cannot  choose  but  gaze,  she  looks  so  mildly  sweet. 

Sad  vestal,  why  art  thou  so  fair, 
Or  why  am  I  so  frail  ? 

Methinks  thou  lookest  kindly  on  me,  Moon, 

And  cheerest  my  lone  hours  with  sweet  regards ! 
Surely  like  me  thou'rt  sad,  but  dost  not  speak 
Thy  sadness  to  the  cold  unheeding  crowd  ; 
So  mournfully  composed,  o'er  yonder  cloud 
Thou  shinest,  like  a  cresset,  beaming  far 
From  the  rude  watch-tower,  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave. 


VI. 


0  GIVE  me  music — for  my  soul  doth  faint ; 

I'm  sick  of  noise  and  care,  and  now  mine  ear 
Longs  for  some  air  of  peace,  some  dying  plaint, 

That  may  the  spirit  from  its  cell  unsphere. 


358  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Hark  how  it  falls  !  and  now  it  steals  along, 
Like  distant  bells  upon  the  lake  at  eve, 

When  all  is  still ;  and  now  it  grows  more  strong, 
As  when  the  choral  train  their  dirges  weave^ 

Mellow  and  many-voiced ;  where  every  close, 

O'er  the  old  minster  roof,  in  echoing  waves  reflows. 

Oh  !  I  am  rapt  aloft.     My  spirit  soars 

Beyond  the  skies,  and  leaves  the  stars  behind. 

Lo !  angels  lead  me  to  the  happy  shores, 
And  floating  paeans  fill  the  buoyant  wind. 

Farewell  !  base  earth,  farewell !  my  soul  is  freed, 

Far  from  its  clayey  cell  it  springs, — 


VII. 

AH  !  who  can  say,  however  fair  his  view, 
Through  what  sad  scenes  his  path  may  lie  ? 
Ah !  who  can  give  to  others'  woes  his  sigh, 

Secure  his  own  will  never  need  it  too  ? 

Let  thoughtless  youth  its  seeming  joys  pursue, 
Soon  will  they  learn  to  scan  with  thoughtful 

eye 
The  illusive  past  and  dark  futurity ; 

Soon  will  they  know — 


FRAGMENTS.  359 


VIII. 

,    AND  must  thou  go,  and  must  we  part  ? 

Yes,  Fate  decrees,  and  I  submit ; 
The  pang  that  rends  in  twain  my  heart, 
Oh,  Fanny,  dost  thou  share  in  it  ? 

Thy  sex  is  fickle, — when  away, 

Some  happier  youth  may  win  thy — 


IX. 


SONNET. 

WHEN  I  sit  musing  on  the  checker'd  past, 

(A  term  much  darken'd  with  untimely  woes,) 
My  thoughts  revert  to  her,  for  whom  still  flows 
The  tear,  though  half  disown'd ; — and  binding  fast 
Pride's  stubborn  cheat  to  my  too  yielding  heart, 
I  say  to  her  she  robb'd  me  of  my  rest,    [breast 
When  that  was  all  my  wealth. — 'Tis  true  my 
Received  from  her  this  wearying,  lingering  smart, 
Yet,  ah !  I  cannot  bid  her  form  depart ; 

Though  wrong'd,  I  love  her — yet  in  anger  love, 
For  she  was  most  unworthy. — Then  I  prove 
Vindictive  joy ;  and  on  my  stern  front  gleams, 
Throned  in  dark  clouds,  inflexible     *     *     * 
The  native  pride  of  my  much  injured  heart. 


300  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

X. 

WHEN  high  romance  o'er  every  wood  and  stream 

Dark  lustre  shed,  my  infant  mind  to  fire, [dream, 
Spell-struck,  and  fill'd  with  many  a  wondering 

First  in  the  groves  I  woke  the  pensive  lyre, 
All  there  was  mystery  then,  the  gust  that  woke 

The  midnight  echo  with  a  spirit's  dirge, 
And  unseen  fairies  would  the  moon  invoke, 

To  their  light  morrice  by  the  restless  surge. 
Now  to  my  sober 'd  thought  with  life's  false  smiles, 

Too  much     *     * 
The  vagrant  Fancy  spreads  no  more  her  wiles, 

And  dark  forebodings  now  my  bosom  fill. 


XI. 

HUSH'D  is  the  lyre — the  hand  that  swept 
The  low  and  pensive  wires, 
Robb'd  of  its  cunning,  from  the  task  retires. 

Yes— it  is  still— the  lyre  is  still ; 

The  spirit  which  its  slumbers  broke          [woke 

Hath  pass'd  away, — and  that  weak  hand  that 
Its  forest  melodies  hath  lost  its  skill. 
Yet  I  would  press  you  to  my  lips  once  more, 

Ye  wild,  ye  withering  flowers  of  poesy ; 
Yet  would  I  drink  the  fragrance  which  ye  pour, 

Mix'd  with  decaying  odours :  for  to  me 
Ye  have  beguiled  the  hours  of  infancy, 

As  in  the  wood-paths  of  my  native — 


FRAGMENTS.  36 1 


XII. 

ONCE  more,  and  yet  once  more, 

I  give  unto  my  harp  a  dark-woven  lay  j 
I  heard  the  waters  roar, 

I  heard  the  flood  of  ages  pass  away. 
0  thou,  stern  spirit,  who  dost  dwell 

In  thine  eternal  cell, 
Noting,  gray  chronicler  !  the  silent  years ; 

I  saw  thee  rise, — I  saw  the  scroll  complete, 

Thou  spakest,  and  at  thy  feet 
The  universe  gave  way. 


31 


362  TIME. 


TIME, 

A   POEM. 

This  Poem  was  begun  either  during  the  publication  of  Clif- 
ton Grove,  or  shortly  afterwards.  Henry  never  laid  aside 
the  intention  of  completing  it,  and  some  of  the  detached 
parts  were  among  his  latest  productions. 

GENIUS  of  musings,  who,  the  midnight  hour 
Wasting  in  woods  or  haunted  forests  wild, 
Dost  watch  Orion  in  his  arctic  tower, 
Thy  dark  eye  fix'd  as  in  some  holy  trance ; 
Or  when  the  vollied  lightnings  cleave  the  air, 
And  Ruin  gaunt  bestrides  the  winged  storm, 
Sitt'st  in  some  lonely  watch-tower,  where  thy  lamp, 
Faint-blazing,  strikes  the  fisher's  eye  from  far, 
And,  'mid  the  howl  of  elements,  unmoved 
Dost  ponder  on  the  awful  scene,  and  trace 
The  vast  effect  to  its  superior  source, — 
Spirit,  attend  my  lowly  benison  ! 
For  now  I  strike  to  themes  of  import  high 
The  solitary  lyre  ;  and,  borne  by  thee 
Above  this  narrow  cell,  I  celebrate 
The  mysteries  of  Time  ! 

Him  who,  august, 

Was  ere  these  worlds  were  fashioned, — ere  the  sun 
Sprang  from  the  east,  or  Lucifer  display'd 
His  glowing  cresset  in  the  arch  of  morn, 


TIME.  363 

Or  Vesper  gilded  the  serener  eve. 
Yea,  He  had  been  for  an  eternity  ! 
Had  swept  unvarying  from  eternity  ! 
The  harp  of  desolation — ere  his  tones' 
At  God's  command,  assumed  a  milder  strain, 
And  startled  on  his  watch,  in  the  vast  deep, 
Chaos'  sluggish  sentry  and  evoked 
From  the  dark  void  the  smiling  universe. 

Chain'd  to  the  grovelling  frailties  of  the  flesh, 

Mere  mortal  man,  unpurged  from  earthly  dross, 

Cannot  survey,  with  fix'd  and  steady  eye, 

The  dim  uncertain  gulf,  which  now  the  muse, 

Adventurous,  would  explore  ; — but  dizzy  grown, 

He  topples  down  the  abyss. — If  he  would  scan 

The  fearful  chasm,  and  catch  a  transient  glimpse 

Of  its  unfathomable  depths,  that  so 

His  mind  may  turn  with  double  joy  to  God, 

His  only  certainty  and  resting  place ; 

He  must  put  off  awhile  this  mortal  vest, 

And  learn  to  follow  without  giddiness, 

To  heights  where  all  is  vision,  and  surprise, 

And  vague  conjecture. — He  must  waste  by  night 

The  studious  taper,  far  from  all  resort 

Of  crowds  and  folly,  in  some  still  retreat ; 

High  on  the  beetling  promontory's  crest, 

Or  in  the  caves  of  the  vast  wilderness,      [shapes, 

Where,  compass'd  round  with  Nature's  wildest 

He  may  be  driven  to  centre  all  his  thoughts 

In  the  great  Architect,  who  lives  confess'd 

In  rocks,  and  seas,  and  solitary  wastes. 


364  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

So  has  divine  Philosophy,  with  voice 

Mild  as  the  murmurs  of  the  moonlight  wave, 

Tutor'd  the  heart  of  him,  who  now  awakes, 

Touching  the  chords  of  solemn  minstrelsy, 

His  faint,  neglected  song — intent  to  snatch 

Some  vagrant  blossom  from  the  dangerous  steep 

Of  poesy,  a  bloom  of  such  a  hue, 

So  sober,  as  may  .not  unseemly  suit 

With  Truth's  severer  brow ;  and  one  withal 

So  hardy  as  shall  brave  the  passing  wind 

Of  many  winters, — rearing  its  meek  head 

In  loveliness,  when  he  who  gather'd  it 

Is  number'd  with  the  generations  gone. 

Yet  not  to  me  hath  God's  good  providence 

Given  studious  leisure,*  or  unbroken  thought, 

Such  as  he  owns, — a  meditative  man, 

Who  from  the  blush  of  morn  to  quiet  eve 

Ponders,  or  turns  the  page  of  wisdom  o'er, 

Far  from  the  busy  crowd's  tumultuous  din : 

From  noise  and  wrangling  far,  and  undisturb'd 

With  Mirth's  unholy  shouts.     For  me  the  day 

Hath  duties  which  require  the  vigorous  hand 

Of  steadfast  application,  but  which  leave 

No  deep  improving  trace  upon  the  mind. 

But  be  the  day  another's ; — let  it  pass  ! 

The  night's  my  own — They  cannot  steal  my  night ! 

When  evening  lights  her  folding-star  on  high, 

I  live  and  breathe,  and  in  the  sacred  hours 

Of  quiet  and  repose,  my  spirit  flies, 

*  The  author  was  then  in  an  attorney's  office. 


TIME.  365 

Free  as  the  morning,  o'er  the  realms  of  space, 
And  mounts  the  skies,  and  imps  her  wing  for 
Heaven. 

Hence  do  I  love  the  sober-suited  maid ;     [theme, 
Hence  Night's  my  friend,  my  mistress,  and  my 
And  she  shall  aid  me  now  to  magnify 
The  night  of  ages, — now  when  the  pale  ray 
Of  star-light  penetrates  the  studious  gloom, 
And,  at  my  window  seated,  while  mankind 
Are  lock'd  in  sleep,  I  feel  the  refreshing  breeze 
Of  stillness  blow,  while,  in  her  saddest  stole, 
Thought,  like  a  wakeful  vestal  at  her  shrine, 
Assumes  her  wonted  sway. 

Behold  the  world 

Rests,  and  her  tired  inhabitants  have  paused 
From  trouble  and  turmoil.     The  widow  now 
Has  ceased  to  weep,  and  her  twin  orphans  lie 
Lock'd  in  each  arm,  partakers  of  her  rest. 
The  man  of  sorrow  has  forgot  his  woes; 
The  outcast  that  his  head  is  shelterless, 
His  griefs  unshared. — The  mother  tends  no  more 
Her  daughter's  dying  slumbers,  but,  surprised 
With  heaviness,  and  sunk  upon  her  couch, 
Dreams  of  her  bridals.     Even  the  hectic,  lull'd 
On  Death's  lean  arm  to  rest,  in  visions  wrapp'd, 
Crowning  with  Hope's  bland  wreath  his  shud- 
dering nurse, 

Poor  victim  !  smiles. — Silence  and  deep  repose 
Reign  o'er  the  nations ;  and  the  warning  voice 
Of  Nature  utters  audibly  within 
The  general  moral : — tells  us  that  repose, 
31  * 


366  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Deathlike  as  this,  but  of  far  longer  span, 

Is  coming  on  us: — that  the  weary  crowds, 

Who  now  enjoy  a  temporary  calm, 

Shall  soon  taste  lasting  quiet,  wrapp'd  around 

With  grave-clothes :  and  their  aching  restless  heads 

Mouldering  in  holes  and  corners  unobserved, 

Till  the  last  trump  shall  break  their  sullen  sleep. 

Who  needs  a  teacher  to  admonish  him 

That  flesh  is  grass,  that  earthly  things  are  mist  ? 

What  are  our  joys  but  dreams?  and  what  our  hopes 

But  goodly  shadows  in  the  summer  cloud? 

There's  not  a  wind  that  blows  but  bears  with  it 

Some  rainbow  promise  : — Not  a  moment  flies 

But  puts  its  sickle  in  the  fields  of  life, 

And  mows  its  thousands,  with  their  joys  and  cares. 

'Tis  but  as  yesterday  since  on  yon  stars, 

Which  now  I  view,  the  Chaldee  Shepherd*  gazed 

In  his  mid-watch  observant,  and  disposed 

The  twinkling  hosts  as  fancy  gave  them  shape. 

Yet  in  the  interim  what  mighty  shocks 

Have  buffeted  mankind — whole  nations  razed — 

Cities  made  desolate, — the  polish'd  sunk 

To  barbarism,  and  once  barbaric  states 

Swaying  the  wand  of  science  and  of  arts ; 

Illustrious  deeeds  and  memorable  names 

Blotted  from  record,  and  upon  the  tongue 

Of  gray  Tradition,  voluble  no  more. 

Where  are  the  heroes  of  the  ages  past  ? 

Where  the  brave  chieftains,  where  the  mighty  ones 

*  Alluding  to  the  first  astronomical  observations  made  by 
the  Chaldean  shepherds. 


TIME.  3ti7 

Who  flourish'd  in  the  infancy  of  days  ? 
All  to  the  grave  gone  down.     On  their  fallen  fame 
Exultant,  mocking  at  the  pride  of  man, 
Sits  grim  Forgetfulness. — The  warrior's  arm 
Lies  nerveless  on  the  pillow  of  its  shame  ; 
Hush'd  is  his  stormy  voice,  and  quench'd  the  blaze 
Of  his  red  eye-hall. — Yesterday  his  name 
Was  mighty  on  the  earth — To  day — 'tis  what? 
The  meteor  of  the  night  of  distant  years, 
That  flash'd  unnoticed,  save  by  wrinkled  eld, 
Musing  at  midnight  upon  prophecies, 
Who  at  her  lonely  lattice  saw  the  gleam 
Point  to  the  mist-poised  shroud,  then  quietly 
Closed  her  pale  lips,  and  lock'd  the  secret  up 
Safe  in  the  charnel's  treasures. 

0  how  weak 

Is  mortal  man  !  how  trifling — how  confined 
His  scope  of  vision  !     PufPd  with  confidence, 
His  phrase  grows  big  with  immortality, 
And  he,  poor  insect  of  a  summer's  day  ! 
Dreams  of  eternal  honours  to  his  name  ; 
Of  endless  glory  and  perennial  bays. 
He  idly  reasons  of  eternity, 
As  of  the  train  of  ages, — when,  alas  ! 
Ten  thousand  thousand  of  his  centuries 
Are,  in  comparison,  a  little  point 
Too  trivial  for  accompt. — 0,  it  is  strange, 
'Tis  passing  strange,  to  mark  his  fallacies ; 
Behold  him  proudly  view  some  pompous  pile, 
Whose  high  dome  swells  to  emulate  the  skies, 
And  smile,  and  say,  my  name  shall  live  with  this 
Till  Time  shall  be  no  more ;  while  at  his  feet, 


368  H.  z.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Yea,  at  his  very  feet,  the  crumbling  dust 
Of  the  fallen  fabric  of  the  other  day 
Preaches  the  solemn  lesson. — He  should  know 
That  time  must  conquer  ;  that  the  loudest  blast 
That  ever  fill'd  Renown's  obstreperous  trump 
Fades  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  and  expires. 
Who  lies  inhumed  in  the  terrific  gloom 
Of  the  gigantic  pyramid  ?  or  who 
Rear'd  its  huge  walls  ?  Oblivion  laughs,  and  says, 
The  prey  is  mine. — They  sleep,  and  never  more 
Their  names  shall  strike  upon  the  ear  of  man, 
Their  memory  bursts  its  fetters. 

Where  is  Rome  ? 

She  lives  but  in  the  tale  of  other  times ; 
Her  proud  pavilions  are  the  hermit's  home, 
And  her  long  colonnades,  her  public  walks, 
Now  faintly  echo  to  the  pilgrims  feet, 
Who  comes  to  muse  in  solitude,  and  trace, 
Through  the  rank  moss  reveal'd,her  honour 'd  dust. 
But  not  to  Rome  alone  has  fate  confined 
The  doom  of  ruin ;  cities  numberless, 
Tyre,  Sidon,  Carthage,  Babylon,  and  Troy, 
And  rich  Phoenicia — they  are  blotted  out, 
Half-razed  from  memory,  and  their  very  name 
And  being  in  dispute. — Has  Athens  fallen  ? 
Is  polish'd  Greece  become  the  savage  seat 
Of  ignorance  and  sloth  ?  and  shall  we  dare 


And  empire  seeks  another  hemisphere. 


TIME.  369 

Where    now  is    Britain? — Where  her  laurell'd 

names, 

Her  palaces  and  halls  ?  Dash'd  in  the  dust, 
Some  second  Vandal  hath  reduced  her  pride, 
And  with  one  big  recoil  hath  thrown  her  back 

To  primitive  barbarity. Again, 

Through  her  depopulated  vales,  the  scream 

Of  bloody  Superstition  hollow  rings, 

And  the  scared  native  to  the  tempest  howls 

The  yell  of  deprecation.     O'er  her  marts, 

Her  crowded  ports,  broods  Silence  ;  and  the  cry 

Of  the  low  curlew,  and  the  pensive  dash 

Of  distant  billows,  breaks  alone  the  void. 

Even  as  the  savage  sits  upon  the  stone 

That  marks  where  stood  her  capitals,  and  hears 

The  bittern  booming  in  the  weeds,  he  shrinks 

From  the  dismaying  solitude. — Her  bards 

Sing  in  a  language  that  hath  perished ; 

And  their  wild  harps  suspended  o'er  their  graves, 

Sigh  to  the  desert  winds  a  dying  strain. 

Meanwhile  the  Arts,  in  second  infancy, 
Rise  in  some  distant  clime,  and  then,  perchance, 
Some  bold  adventurer,  fill'd  with  golden  dreams, 
Steering  his  bark  through  trackless  solitudes, 
Where,  to  his  wondering  thoughts,  no  daring  prow 
Hath  ever  plough'd  before, — espies  the  cliffs 
Of  fallen  Albion. — To  the  land  unknown 
He  journeys  joyful ;  and  perhaps  descries 
Some  vestige  of  her  ancient  stateliness  : 
Then  he,  with  vain  conjecture,  fills  his  mind 
Of  the  unheard-of  race,  which  had  arrived 


370  H.  z.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

At  science  in  that  solitary  nook, 

Far  from  the  civil  world  ;  and  sagely  sighs. 

And  moralizes  on  the  state  of  man. 

Still  on  its  march,  unnoticed  and  unfelt, 

Moves  on  our  being.     We  do  live  and  breathe, 

And  we  are  gone.     The  spoiler  heeds  us  not. 

We  have  our  spring-time  and  our  rottenness ; 

And  as  we  fall,  another  race  succeeds, 

To  perish  likewise. — Meanwhile  Nature  smiles — 

The  seasons  run  their  round — The  Sun  fulfils 

His  annual  course — and  Heaven  and  earth  remain 

Still  changing,  yet  unchanged — still  doom'd  to  feel 

Endless  mutation  in  perpetual  rest. 

Where  are  conceal'd  the  days  which  have  elapsed? 

Hid  in  the  mighty  cavern  of  the  pasty 

They  rise  upon  us  only  to  appal, 

By  indistinct  and  half-glimpsed  images, 

Misty,  gigantic,  huge,  obscure,  remote. 

Oh,  it  is  fearful,  on  the  midnight  couch, 

When  the  rude  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave, 

And  the  pale  moon,  that  through  the  casement  high 

Surveys  the  sleepless  muser,  stamps  the  hour 

Of  utter  silence,  it  is  fearful  then 

To  steer  the  mind,  in  deadly  solitude, 

Up  the  vague  stream  of  probability  ; 

To  wind  the  mighty  secrets  of  the  past, 

And  turn  the  key  of  Time  ? — Oh  !  who  can  strive 

To  comprehend  the  vast,  the  awful  truth, 

Of  the  eternity  that  hath  gone  by, 

And  not  recoil  from  the  dismaying  sense 


TIME.  371 

Of  human  impotence  ?     The  life  of  man 

Is  summ'd  in  birth-days  and  in  sepulchres : 

But  the  eternal  God  had  no  beginning ; 

He  hath  no  end.     Time  had  been  with  him 

For  everlasting,  ere  the  daedal  world 

Rose  from  the  gulf  in  loveliness. — Like  him 

It  knew  no  source,  like  him  'twas  uncreate. 

What  is  it  then  ?     The  past  Eternity  ! 

We  comprehend  a.  future  without  end  ; 

We  feel  it  possible  that  even  yon  sun 

May  roll  for  ever :  but  we  shrink  amazed — 

We  stand  aghast,  when  we  reflect  that  Time 

Knew  no  commencement, — That  heap  age  on  age, 

And  million  upon  million  without  end, 

And  we  shall  never  span  the  void  of  days 

That  were,  and  are  not  but  in  retrospect. 

The  Past  is  an  unfathomable  depth, 

Beyond  the  span  of  thought ;  'tis  an  elapse 

Which  hath  no  mensuration,  but  hath  been 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Change  of  days 

To  us  is  sensible ;  and  each  revolve 
Of  the  recording  sun  conducts  us  on 
Further  in  life,  and  nearer  to  our  goal. 
Not  so  with  Time, — mysterious  chronicler, 
He  knoweth  not  mutation ; — centuries 
Are  to  his  being  as  a  day,  and  days 
As  centuries. — Time  past,  and  Time  to  come, 
Are  always  equal ;  when  the  world  began 
God  had  existed  from  eternity. 


372  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Now  look  on  man 

Myriads  of  ages  hence. — Hath  time  elapsed  ? 
Is  he  not  standing  in  the  self-same  place 
Where  once  we  stood  ? — The  same  eternity 
Hath  gone  before  him,  and  is  yet  to  come ; 
His  past  is  not  of  longer  span  than  ours, 
Though  myriads  of  ages  intervened ; 
For  who  can  add  to  what  has  neither  sum, 
Nor  bound,  nor  source,  nor  estimate,  nor  end  ? 
Oh,  who  can  compass  the  Almighty  mind  ? 
Who  can  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  High  ? 
In  speculations  of  an  altitude 
Sublime  as  this,  our  reason  stands  confess'd 
Foolish,  and  insignificant,  and  mean. 
Who  can  apply  the  futile  argument 
Of  finite  beings  to  infinity  ? 
He  might  as  well  compress  the  universe 
Into  the  hollow  compass  of  a  gourd, 
Scoop 'd  out  by  human  art ;  or  bid  the  whale 
Drink  up  the  sea  it  swims  in  ! — Can  the  less 
Contain  the  greater  ?  or  the  dark  obscure 
Infold  the  glories  of  meridian  day  ? 
What  does  Philosophy  impart  to  man 
But  undiscover'd  wonders  ? — Let  her  soar 
Even  to  her  proudest  heights — to  where  she  caught 
The  soul  of  Newton  and  of  Socrates, 
She  but  extends  the  scope  of  wild  amaze 
And  admiration.     All  her  lessons  end 
In  wider  views  of  God's  unfathom'd  depths. 

Lo  !  the  unletter'd  hind,  who  never  knew 
To  raise  his  mind  excursive  to  the  heights 


TIME.  373 

Of  abstract  contemplation,  as  he  sits 
On  the  green  hillock  by  the  hedge-row  side, 
What  time  the  insect  swarms  are  murmuring, 
And  marks,  in  silent  thought,  the  broken  clouds 
That  fringe  with  loveliest  hues  the  evening  sky, 
Feels  in  his  soul  the  hand  of  Nature  rouse 
The  thrill  of  gratitude,  to  him  who  form'd 
The  goodly  prospect ;  he  beholds  the  God 
Throned  in  the  west,  and  his  reposing  ear 
Hears  sounds  angelic  in  the  fitful  breeze    [brake, 
That  floats  through  neighbouring  copse  or  fairy 
Or  lingers  playful  on  the  haunted  stream. 
Go  with  the  cotter  to  his  winter  fire, 
Where  o'er  the  moors  the  loud  blast  whistles  shrill, 
And  the  hoarse  ban-dog  bays  the  icy  moon; 
Mark  with  what  awe  he  lists  the  wild  uproar, 
Silent,  and  big  with  thought ;  and  hear  him  bless 
The  God  that  rides  on  the  tempestuous  clouds 
For  his  snug  hearth,  and  all  his  little  joys  : 
Hear  him  compare  his  happier  lot  with  his 
Who  bends  his  way  across  the  wintry  wolds, 
A  poor  night-traveller,  while  the  dismal  snow 
Beats  in  his  face,  and,  dubious  of  his  path, 
He  stops,  and  thinks,  in  every  lengthening  blast, 
He  hears  some  village-mastiff's  distant  howl, 
And  sees,  far-streaming,  some  lone  cottage  light ; 
Then,  undeceived,  upturns  his  streaming  eyes, 
And  clasps  his  shivering  hands ;  or,  overpower'd, 
Sinks  on  the  frozen  ground,  weigh'd  down  with 

sleep, 

From  which  the  hapless  wretch  shall  never  wake. 

Thus  the  poor  rustic  warms  his  heart  with  praise 

32 


374  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

And  glowing  gratitude, — he  turns  to  bless, 

With  honest  warmth,  his  Maker  and  his  God  ! 

And  shall  it  e'er  he  said,  that  a  poor  hind, 

Nursed  in  the  lap  of  Ignorance,  and  bred 

In  want  and  labour,  glows  with  nobler  zeal 

To  laud  his  Maker's  attributes,  while  he 

Whom  starry  Science  in  her  cradle  rock'd, 

And  Castaly  enchasten'd  with  its  dews, 

Closes  his  eye  upon  the  holy  word, 

And,  blind  to  all  but  arrogance  and  pride, 

Dares  to  declare  his  infidelity, 

And  openly  contemn  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ? 

What  is  philosophy,  if  it  impart 

Irreverence  for  the  Deity,  or  teach 

A  mortal  man  to  set  his  judgment  up 

Against  his  Maker's  will  ? — The  Polygar, 

Who  kneels  to  sun  or  moon,  compared  with  him 

Who  thus  perverts  the  talents  he  enjoys, 

Is  the  most  bless'd  of  men  ! — Oh  !  I  would  walk 

A  weary  journey,  to  the  furthest  verge 

Of  the  big  world,  to  kiss  that  good  man's  hand, 

Who,  in  the  blaze  of  wisdom  and  of  art, 

Preserves  a  lowly  mind ;  and  to  his  God, 

Feeling  the  sense  of  his  own  littleness, 

Is  as  a  child  in  meek  simplicity  ! 

What  is  the  pomp  of  learning  ?  the  parade 

Of  letters  and  of  tongues  ?  Even  as  the  mists 

Of  the  gray  morn  before  the  rising  sun, 

That  pass  away  and  perish. 

Earthly  things 

Are  but  the  transient  pageants  of  an  hour ; 
And  earthly  pride  is  like  the  passing  flower, 


TIME.  375 

That  springs  to  fall,  and  blossoms  but  to  die. 
'Tis  as  the  tower  erected  on  a  cloud, 
Baseless  and  silly  as  the  school-boy's  dream. 
Ages  and  epochs  that  destroy  our  pride, 
And  then  record  its  downfall,  what  are  they 
But  the  poor  creatures  of  man's  teeming  brain  ? 
Hath  Heaven  its  ages  ?  or  doth  Heaven  preserve 
Its  stated  aeras  ?     Doth  the  Omnipotent 
Hear  of  to-morrows  or  of  yesterdays  ? 
There  is  to  God  nor  future  nor  a  past ; 
Throned  in  his  might,  all  times  to  him  are  present ; 
He  hath  no  lapse,  no  past,  no  time  to  come ; 
He  sees  before  him  one  eternal  now. 
Time  moveth  not ! — our  being  'tis  that  moves : 
And  we,  swift  gliding  down  life's  rapid  stream, 
Dream  of  swift  ages  and  revolving  years, 
Ordain'd  to  chronicle  our  passing  days  ; 
So  the  young  sailor  in  the  gallant  bark, 
Scudding  before  the  wind,  beholds  the  coast 
Receding  from  his  eyes,  and  thinks  the  while, 
Struck  with  amaze,  that  he  is  motionless, 
And  that  the  land  is  sailing. 

Such,  alas ! 

Are  the  illusions  of  this  Proteus    life ; 
All,  all  is  false :  through  every  phasis  still 
'Tis  shadowy  and  deceitful.     It  assumes 
The  semblance  of  things  and  specious  shapes ; 
But  the  lost  traveller  might  as  soon  rely 
On  the  evasive  spirit  of  the  marsh, 
Whose  lantern  beams,  and  vanishes,  and  flits, 
O'er  bog,  and  rock,  and  pit,  and  hollow  way, 
As  we  on  its  appearances. 


376  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

On  earth 

There  is  nor  certainty  nor  stable  hope. 
As  well  the  weary  mariner,  whose  bark 
Is  toss'd  beyond  Cimmerian  Bosphorus, 
Where  Storm  and  Darkness  hold  their  drear  domain, 
And  sunbeams  never  penetrate,  might  trust 
To  expectation  of  serener  skies, 
And  linger  in  the  very  jaws  of  death, 
Because  some  peevish  cloud  were  opening, 
Or  the  loud  storm  had  bated  in  its  rage  : 
As  we  look  forward  in  this  vale  of  tears 
To  permanent  delight — from  some  slight  glimpse 
Of  shadowy  unsubstantial  happiness. 

The  good  man's  hope  is  laid  far,  far  beyond 

The  sway  of  tempests,  or  the  furious  sweep 

Of  mortal  desolation. — He  beholds, 

Unapprehensive,  the  gigantic  stride 

Of  rampant  Ruin,  or  the  unstable  waves 

Of  dark  Vicissitude. — Even  in  death, 

In  that  dread  hour,  when  with  a  giant  pang, 

Tearing  the  tender  fibres  of  the  heart, 

The  immortal  spirit  struggles  to  be  free, 

Then,  even  then,  that  hope  forsakes  him  not, 

For  it  exists  beyond  the  narrow  verge 

Of  the  cold  sepulchre. — The  petty  joys 

Of  fleeting  life  indignantly  it  spurn'd, 

And  rested  on  the  bosom  of  its  God. 

This  is  man's  only  reasonable  hope ; 

And  'tis  a  hope  which,  cherish'd  in  the  breast, 

Shall  not  be  disappointed. — Even  he, 


TIME.  377 

The  Holy  One — Almighty — who  elanced 
The  rolling  world  along  its  airy  way, 
Even  He  will  deign  to  smile  upon  the  good, 
And  welcome  him  to  these  celestial  seats, 
Where  joy  and  gladness  hold  their  changeless  reign. 
Thou,  proud  man,  look  upon  yon  starry  vault, 
Survey  the  countless  gems  which  richly  stud, 
The  Night's  imperial  chariot ; — Telescopes 
Will  show  thee  myriads  more  innumerous 
Than  the  sea  sand ; — each  of  those  little  lamps 
Is  the  great  source  of  light,  the  central  sun 
Round  which  some  other  mighty  sisterhood 
Of  planets  travel,  every  planet  stock'd 
With  living  beings  impotent  as  thee.  [fled  ? 

Now,  proud  man !  now,  where  is  thy  greatness 
What  art  thou  in  the  scale  of  universe  ? 
Less,  less  than  nothing  ! — Yet  of  thee  the  God 
Who  built  this  wondrous  frame  of  worlds  is  careful, 
As  well  as  of  the  mendicant  who  begs 
The  leavings  of  thy  table.     And  shalt  thou 
Lift  up  thy  thankless  spirit,  and  contemn 
His  heavenly  providence  !     Deluded  fool, 
Even  now  the  thunderbolt  is  wing'd  with  death, 
Even  now  thou  totterest  on  the  brink  of  hell. 

How  insignificant  is  mortal  man, 
Bound  to  the  hasty  pinions  of  an  hour ; 
How  poor,  how  trivial  in  the  vast  conceit 
Of  infinite  duration,  boundless  space  ! 
God  of  the  universe  !  Almighty  one  ! 
Thou  who  dost  walk  upon  the  winged  winds, 
32  * 


378  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Or  with  the  storm  thy  rugged  charioteer, 
Swift  and  impetuous  as  the  northern  blast, 
Ridest  from  pole  to  pole ;  Thou  who  dost  hold 
The  forked  lightnings  in  thine  awful  grasp, 
And  reinest  in  the  earthquake,  when  thy  wrath 
Goes  down  towards  erring  man,  I  would  address 
To  Thee  my  parting  paean ;  for  of  Thee, 
Great  beyond  comprehension,  who  thyself 
Art  Time  and  Space,  sublime  Infinitude, 
Of  Thee  has  been  my  song — With  awe  I  kneel 
Trembling  before  the  footstool  of  thy  state, 
My  God  !  my  Father ! — I  will  sing  to  Thee 
A  hymn  of  laud,  a  solemn  canticle, 
Ere  on  the  cypress  wreath,  which  overshades 
The  throne  of  Death,  I  hang  my  mournful  lyre, 
And  give  its  wild  strings  to  the  desert  gale. 
Rise,  Son  of  Salem  !  rise,  and  join  the  strain, 
Sweep  to  accordant  tones  thy  tuneful  harp, 
And  leaving  vain  laments,  arouse  thy  soul 
To  exultation.     Sing  hosanna,  sing, 
And  hallelujah,  for  the  Lord  is  great 
And  full  of  mercy  !     He  has  thought  of  man ; 
Yea,  compass'd  round  with  countless  worlds,  has 

thought 

Of  we  poor  worms,  that  batten  in  the  dews 
Of  morn,  and  perish  ere  the  noon-day  sun. 
Sing  to  the  Lord,  for  he  is  merciful : 
He  gave  the  Nubian  lion  but  to  live, 
To  rage  its  hour,  and  perish  ;  but  on  man 
He  lavish'd  immortality,  and  Heaven. 
The  eagle  falls  from  her  aerial  tower, 


TIME.  379 

And  mingles  with  irrevocable  dust : 

But  man  from  death  springs  joyful, 

Springs  up  to  life  and  to  eternity. 

Oh,  that,  insensate  of  the  favouring  boon, 

The  great  exclusive  privilege  bestow'd 

On  us  unworthy  trifles,  men  should  dare 

To  treat  with  slight  regard  the  proffer'd  Heaven, 

And  urge  the  lenient,  but  All-Just,  to  swear 

In  wrath,  "  They  shall  not  enter  in  my  rest/' 

Might  I  address  the  supplicative  strain 

To  thy  high  footstool,  I  would  pray  that  thou 

Wouldst  pity  the  deluded  wanderers, 

And  fold  them,  ere  they  perish,  in  thy  flock. 

Yea,  I  would  bid  thee  pity  them,  through  Him, 

Thy  well-beloved,  who,  upon  the  cross, 

Bled  a  dead  sacrifice  for  human  sin, 

And  paid,  with  bitter  agony,  the  debt 

Of  primitive  transgression. 

Oh !  I  shrink, 

My  very  soul  doth  shrink,  when  I  reflect 
That  the  time  hastens,  when  in  vengeance  clothed, 
Thou  shalt  come  down  to  stamp  the  seal  of  fate 
On  erring  mortal  man.     Thy  chariot  wheels 
Then  shall  rebound  to  earths  remotest  caves, 
And  stormy  Ocean  from  his  bed  shall  start 
At  the  appalling  summons.     Oh  !  how  dread, 
On  the  dark  eye  of  miserable  man, 
Chasing  his  sins  in  secrecy  and  gloom, 
Will  burst  the  effulgence  of  the  opening  Heaven ; 
When  to  the  brazen  trumpet's  deafening  roar, 
Thou  and  thy  dazzling  cohorts  shall  descend, 


380  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Proclaiming  the  fulfilment  of  the  word ! 
The  dead  shall  start  astonish'd  from  their  sleep  ! 
The  sepulchres  shall  groan  and  yield  their  prey, 
The  bellowing  floods  shall  disembogue  theircharge 
Of  human  victims. — From  the  farthest  nook 
Of  the  wide  world  shall  troop  their  risen  souls, 
From  him  whose  bones  are  bleaching  in  the  waste 
Of  polar  solitudes,  or  him  whose  corpse, 
Whelm'd  in  the  loud  Atlantic's  vexed  tides, 
Is  wash'd  on  some  Carribean  prominence, 
To  the  lone  tenant  of  some  secret  cell 
In  the  Pacific's  vast   *  *  *  realm, 
Where  never  plummet's  sound  was  heard  to  part 
The  wilderness  of  water ;  they  shall  come 
To  greet  the  solemn  advent  of  the  Judge. 
Thou  first  shalt  summon  the  elected  saints, 
To  their  apportion'd  Heaven  !  and  thy  Son, 
At  thy  right  hand,  shall  smile  with  conscious  joy 
On  all  his  past  distresses,  when  for  them 
He  bore  humanity's  severest  pangs. 
Then  shalt  thou  seize  the  avenging  scymitar, 
And,  with  a  roar  as  loud  and  horrible 
As  the  stern  earthquake's  monitory  voice, 
The  wicked  shall  be  driven  to  their  abode, 
Down  the  immitigable  gulf,  to  wail 
And  gnash  their  teeth  in  endless  agony. 
****** 

Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard. — Spirit,  rear 
Thy  flag  on  high  ! — Invincible,  and  throned 
In  unparticipated  might.     Behold 
Earth's  proudest  boasts,  beneath  thy  silent  sway, 


TIME.  381 

Sweep  headlong  to  destruction,  thou  the  while, 

Unmoved  and  heedless,  thou  dost  hear  the  rush 

Of  mighty  generations,  as  they  pass 

To  the  broad  gulf  of  ruin,  and  dost  stamp 

Thy  signet  on  them,  and  they  rise  no  more.  [Time, 

Who    shall    contend  with    Time — unvanquish'd 

The  conqueror  of  conquerors,  and  lord 

Of  desolation  ? — Lo  !  the  shadows  fly, 

The  hours  and  days,  and  years  and  centuries, 

They  fly,  they  fly,  and  nations  rise  and  fall. 

The  young  are  old,  the  old  are  in  their  graves. 

Heard'st  thou  that  shout  ?  It  rent  the  vaulted  skies ; 

It  was  the  voice  of  people, — mighty  crowds, — 

Again !  'tis  hush'd — Time  speaks,  and  all  is  hush'd; 

In  the  vast  multitude  now  reigns  alone 

Unruffled  solitude.     They  all  are  still ; 

All — yea,  the  whole — the  incalculable  mass, 

Still  as  the  ground  that  clasps  their  cold  remains. 

Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard. — Spirit,  rear 
Thy  flag  on  high  !  and  glory  in  thy  strength. 
But  do  thou  know  the  season  yet  shall  come, 
When  from  its  base  thine  adamantine  throne 
Shall  tumble  ;  when  thine  arm  shall  cease  to  strike, 
Thy  voice  forget  its  petrifying  power ;         [more. 
When  saints  shall  shout,  and   Time  shall  be  no 
Yea,  he  doth  come — the  mighty  champion  comes, 
Whose  potent  spear  shall  give  thee  thy  death- 
wound, 

Shall  crush  the  conqueror  of  conquerors, 
And  desolate  stern  Desolation's  lord. 


382  H.  K.  WHITE'S  POEMS. 

Lo  !  where  he  cometh !  the  Messiah  comes  ! 
The  King !  the  Comforter !  the  Christ ! — He  comes 
So  burst  the  bonds  of  death,  and  overturn 
The  power  of  Time. — Hark  !  the  trumpet's  blast 
Rings  o'er  the  heavens !  They  rise  the  myriads 

rise — 
Even  from  their  graves  they  spring,  and  burst  the 

chains 
Of  torpor — He  has  ransom'd  them,  *  *  * 

Forgotten  generations  live  again, 
Assume  the  bodily  shapes  they  own'd  of  old, 
Beyond  the  flood  ; — the  righteous  of  their  times 
Embrace  and  weep,  they  weep  the  tears  of  joy. 
The  sainted  mother  wakes,  and  in  her  lap 
Clasps  her  dear  babe,  the  partner  of  her  grave, 
And  heritor  with  her  of  Heaven, — a  flower 
Wash'd  by  the  blood  of  Jesus  from  the  stain 
Of  native  guilt,  even  in  its  early  bud, 
And,  hark !  those  strains,  how  solemnly  serene 
They  fall,  as  from  the  skies — at  distance  fall — 
Again  more  loud — The  hallelujah's  swell ; 
The  newly-risen  catch  the  joyful  sound ; 
They  glow,  they  burn  ;  and  now  with  one  accord 
Bursts  forth  sublime  from  every  mouth  the  song 
Of  praise  to  God  on  high,  and  to  the  Lamb 
Who  bled  for  mortals. 


Yet  there  is  peace  for  man. — Yea,  there  is  peace 
Even  in  this  noisy,  this  unsettled  scene ; 


TIME.  383 

When  from  the  crowd,  and  from  the  city  far, 
Haply  he  may  be  set  (in  his  late  walk 
O'ertaken  with  deep  thought)  beneath  the  boughs 
Of  honeysuckle  when  the  sun  is  gone, 
And  with  fix'd  eye,  and  wistful,  he  surveys 
The  solemn  shadows  of  the  Heavens  sail,. 
And  thinks  the  season  yet  shall  come,  when  Time 
Will  waft  him  to  repose,  to  deep  repose, 
Far  from  the  unquietness  of  life — from  noise 
And  tumult  far — beyond  the  flying  clouds, 
Beyond  the  stars,  and  all  this  passing  scene, 
Where  change  shall  cease,  and  Time  shall  be  no 


MELANCHOLY   HOURS. 

(No.  I.) 


There  is  a  mood 

(I  sing  not  to  the  vacant  and  the  young) 

There  is  a  kindly  mood  of  Melancholy, 

That  wings  the  soul  and  points  her  to  the  skies. 

Dyer. 


PHILOSOPHERS  have  divested  themselves  of 
their  natural  apathy,  and  poets  have  risen  above 
themselves,  in  descanting  on  the  pleasures  of 
Melancholy.  There  is  no  mind  so  gross,  no 
understanding  so  uncultivated,  as  to  be  incapable, 
at  certain  moments,  and  amid  certain  combina- 
tions, of  feeling  that  sublime  influence  upon  the 
spirits  which  steals  the  soul  from  the  petty  anxi- 
eties of  the  world, 

"  And  fits  it  to  hold  converse  with  the  gods." 

I  must  confess,  if  such  there  be  who  never 
felt  the  divine  abstraction,  I  envy  them  not 
their  insensibility.  For  my  own  part,  it  is  from 
the  indulgence  of  this  soothing  power  that  I 
derive  the  most  exquisite  of  gratifications ;  at  the 
calm  hour  of  moonlight,  amid  all  the  sublime 
33  385 


386  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

serenity,  the  dead  stillness  of  the  night ;  or  when 
the  howling  storm  rages  in  the  heavens,  the  rain 
pelts  on  my  roof,  and  the  winds  whistle  through 
the  crannies  of  my  apartment,  I  feel  the  divine 
mood  of  melancholy  upon  me  ;  I  imagine  myself 
placed  upon  an  eminence,  above  the  crowds  who 
pant  below  in  the  dusty  tracks  of,  wealth  and 
honor.  The  black  catalogue  of  crimes  and  of 
vice ;  the  sad  tissue  of  wretchedness  and  wo, 
passes  in  review  before  me,  and  I  look  down  upon 
man  with  an  eye  of  pity  and  commiseration. 
Though  the  scenes  which  I  survey  be  mournful, 
and  the  ideas  they  excite  equally  sombre  ;  though 
the  tears  gush  as  I  contemplate  them,  and  my 
heart  feels  heavy  with  the  sorrowful  emotions 
which  they  inspire ;  yet  are  they  not  unaccompa- 
nied with  sensations  of  the  purest  and  most 
ecstatic  bliss. 

It  is  to  the  spectator  alone  that  Melancholy  is 
forbidding ;  in  herself  she  is  soft  and  interesting, 
and  capable  of  affording  pure  and  unalloyed 
delight.  Ask  the  lover  why  he  muses  by  the  side 
of  the  purling  brook,  or  plunges  into  the  deep 
gloom  of  the  forest  ?  Ask  the  unfortunate  why 
he  seeks  the  still  shades  of  solitude  ?  or  the  man 
who  feels  the  pangs  of  disappointed  ambition, 
why  he  retires  into  the  silent  walks  of  seclusion  ? 
and  he  will  tell  you  that  he  derives  a  pleasure 
therefrom,  which  nothing  else  can  impart.  It  is 
the  delight  of  Melancholy ;  but  the  melancholy 
of  these  beings  is  as  far  removed  from  that  of  the 
philosopher,  as  are  the  narrow  and  contracted 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  387 

complaints  of  selfishness  from  the  mournful  regrets 
of  expansive  philanthropy  ;  as  are  the  desponding 
intervals  of  insanity  from  the  occasional  depres- 
sions of  benevolent  sensibility. 

The  man  who  has  attained  that  calm  equa- 
nimity which  qualifies  him  to  look  down  upon  the 
petty  evils  of  life  with  indifference ;  who  can  so 
far  conquer  the  weakness  of  nature,  as  to  consider 
the  sufferings  of  the  individual  of  little  moment, 
when  put  in  competition  with  the  welfare  of  the 
community,  is  alone  the  true  philosopher.  His 
melancholy  is  not  excited  by  the  retrospect  of  his 
own  misfortunes ;  it  has  its  rise  from  the  contem- 
plation of  the  miseries  incident  to  life,  and  the  evils 
which  obtrude  themselves  upon  society,  and 
interrupt  the  harmony  of  nature.  It  would  be 
arrogating  too  much  merit  to  myself,  to  assert  that 
I  have  a  just  claim  to  the  title  of  a  philosopher, 
as  it  is  here  defined  ;  or  to  say  that  the  speculations 
of  my  melancholy  hours  are  equally  disinterested : 
be  this  as  it  may,  I  have  determined  to  present  my 
solitary  effusions  to  the  public ;  they  will  at  least 
have  the  merit  of  novelty  to  recommend  them,  and 
may  possibly,  in  some  measure,  be  instrumental 
in  the  melioration  of  the  human  heart,  or  the  cor- 
rection of  false  prepossessions.  This  is  the  height  of 
my  ambition  ;  this  once  attained,  and  my  end  will 
be  fully  accomplished.  One  thing  I  can  safely 
promise,  though  far  from  being  the  coinages  of  a 
heart  at  ease,  they  will  contain  neither  the  quer- 
ulous captiousness  of  misfortune,  nor  the  bitter 
taunts  of  misanthropy.  Society  is  a  chain  of 


388  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

which  I  am  merely  a  link :  all  men  are  my  asso- 
ciates in  error,  and  though  some  may  have  gone 
farther  in  ways  of  guilt  than  myself,  yet  it  is  not 
in  me  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  them ;  it  is  mine  to 
treat  them  rather  in  pity  than  in  anger,  to  lament 
their  crimes  and  to  weep  over  their  sufferings.  As 
these  papers  will  be  the  amusement  of  those  hours 
of  relaxation,  when  the  mind  recedes  from  the 
vexations  of  business,  and  sinks  into  itself  for  a 
moment  of  solitary  ease,  rather  than  the  efforts  of 
literary  leisure,  the  reader  will  not  expect  to  find 
in  them  unusual  elegance  of  language,  or  studied 
propriety  of  style.  In  the  short  and  necessary  in- 
tervals of  cessation  from  the  anxieties  of  an  irk- 
some employment,  one  finds  little  time  to  be 
solicitous  about  expression.  If,  therefore,  the 
fervor  of  a  glowing  mind  expresses  itself  in  too 
warm  and  luxuriant  a  manner  for  the  cold  ear  of 
dull  propriety,  let  the  fastidious  critic  find  a  selfish 
pleasure  in  decrying  it.  To  criticism  melancholy  is 
indifferent.  If  learning  cannot  be  better  employed 
than  in  declaiming  against  the  defects,  while  it  is 
insensible  to  the  beauties  of  a  performance,  well 
may  we  exclaim  with  the  poet, 


n  ey/ivjic  ttyiottt  a*  a./uu»fjtc,t  tit  ft 
OT«X  at  ffu  cu  i%W  oiTtoc  «•'  OVK  ayytttt. 

w 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  389 

MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(No.  II.) 


But  (wel-a-day  !)  who  loves  the  Muses  now? 
Or  helpes  the  climber  of  the  sacred  hylll 
None  leane  to  them  ;  but  strive  to  disalow 
All  heavenly  dewes  the  goddesses  distil. 

Wm.  Brown's  Shepheard's  Pipe.     Eg.  5. 


IT  is  a  melancholy  reflection,  and  a  reflection 
which  often  sinks  heavily  on  my  soul,  that  the 
Sons  of  Genius  generally  seem  predestined  to 
encounter  the  rudest  storms  of  adversity,  to 
struggle,  unnoticed,  with  poverty  and  misfortune. 
The  annals  of  the  world  present  us  with  many 
corroborations  of  this  remark ;  and,  alas  !  who 
can  tell  how  many  unhappy  beings,  who  might 
have  shone  with  distinguished  lustre  among  the 
stars  which  illumine  our  hemisphere  may  have  sunk 
unknown  beneath  the  pressure  of  untoward  circum- 
stances ;  who  knows  how  many  may  have  shrunk, 
with  all  the  exquisite  sensibility  of  genius,  from 
the  rude  and  riotous  discord  of  the  world,  into  the 
peaceful  slumbers  of  death.  Among  the  number 
of  those  whose  talents  might  have  elevated  them 
33* 


390  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

to  the  first  rank  of  eminence,  but  who  have  been 
overwhelmed  with  the  accumulated  ills  of  poverty 
and  misfortune,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  rank  a  young 
man  whom  I  once  accounted  my  greatest  happiness 
to  be  able  to  call  my  friend. 

CHARLES  WANELY  was  the  only  son  of  an 
humble  village  rector,  who  just  lived  to  give  him 
a  liberal  education,  and  then  left  him  unprovided 
for  and  unprotected,  to  struggle  through  the  world 
as  well  as  he  could.  With  a  heart  glowing  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  poetry  and  romance,  with  a 
sensibility  the  most  exquisite,  and  with  an  indig- 
nant pride,  which  swelled  in  his  veins,  and  told 
him  he  was  a  man,  my  friend  found  himself  cast 
upon  the  wide  world  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  an 
ad  venturer,  without  fortune  and  without  connexion. 

As  his  independent  spirit  could  not  brook  the 
idea  of  being  a  burden  to  those  whom  his  father 
had  taught  him  to  consider  only  as  allied  by  blood, 
and  not  by  affection,  he  looked  about  him  for  a 
situation  which  could  ensure  to  him,  by  his  own 
exertions,  an  honorable  competence.  It  was  not 
long  before  such  a  situation  offered,  and  Charles 
precipitately  articled  himself  to  an  attorney, 
without  giving  himself  time  to  consult  his  own 
inclinations,  or  the  disposition  of  his  master.  The 
transition  from  Sophocles  and  Euripides,  The- 
ocritus and  Ovid,  to  Finche  and  Wood,  Coke  and 
Wynne,  was  striking  and  difficult;  but  Charles 
applied  himself  with  his  wonted  ardor  to  his 
new  study,  as  considering  it  not  only  his  interest, 
but  his  duty  so  to  do.  It  was  not  long,  however, 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  391 

before  he  discovered  that    he  disliked  the  law, 
that  he  disliked  his  situation,  and  that  he  despised 
his  master.     The  fact  was,  my  friend  had  many 
mortifications  to  endure,  which  his  haughty  soul 
could  ill  hrook.     The  attorney  to  whom  he  was 
articled,  was  one  of  those  narrow-minded  beings 
who  consider  wealth  as  alone  entitled  to  respect. 
He    had    discovered    that    his    clerk    was   very 
poor,  and  very  destitute  of  friends,  and  thence  he 
very  naturally  concluded  that  he  might  insult  him 
with  impunity.     It  appears,  however,  that  he  was 
mistaken  in  his  calculations.    I  one  night  remarked 
that  my  friend  was  unusually  thoughtful.     I  ven- 
tured to  ask  him  whether  he  had  met  with  any 
thing  particular  to  ruffle  his  spirits.     He  looked 
at  me  for  some  moments  significantly,  then,  as  if 
roused  to  fury  by  the  recollection — "  I  have,"  said 
he  vehemently,  "  I  have,  I  have.     He  has  insulted 
me  grossly,  and  I  will  bear  it  no  longer."     He 
now  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  visible 
emotion. — Presently  he  sat    down. — He  seemed 
more  composed.     "  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  have 
endured  much  from  this  man.     I  conceived  it  my 
duty  to  forbear,  but  I  have  forborne  until  forbear- 
ance is  blameable,  and,  by  the  Almighty,  I  will 
never  again  endure  what  I  have  endured  this  day. 
But  not  only  this  man ;  every  one  thinks  he  may 
treat  .me  with  contumely,  because  I  am  poor  and 
friendless.     But  I  am  a  man,  and  will  no  longer 
tamely  submit  to  be  the  sport  of  fools,  and  the 
foot-ball  of  caprice.     In  this  spot  of  earth,  though 
it  gave  me  birth,  I  can  never  taste  of  ease.     Here 


392  MBLANCHOLY    HOURS. 

I  must  be  miserable.  The  principal  end  of  man 
is  to  arrive  at  happiness.  Here  I  can  never  attain 
it;  and  here  therefore  I  will  no  longer  remain. 
My  obligations  to  the  rascal,  who  calls  himself  my 
master,  are  cancelled  by  his  abuse  of  the  authority 
I  rashly  placed  in  his  hands.  I  have  no  relations 
to  bind  me  to  this  particular  place."  The  tears 
started  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke.  "  I  have  no  tender 
ties  to  bid  me  stay,  and  why  do  I  stay  '  The  world 
is  all  before  me.  My  inclination  leads  me  to 
travel ;  I  will  pursue  that  inclination ;  and, 
perhaps,  in  a  strange  land  I  may  find  that  repose 
which  is  denied  to  me  in  the  place  of  my  birth. 
My  finances,  it  is  true,  are  ill  able  to  support  the 
expenses  of  travelling :  but  what  then — Gold- 
smith, my  friend,"  with  rising  enthusiasm, "  Gold- 
smith traversed  Europe  on  foot,  and  I  am  as 
hardy  as  Goldsmith.  Yes,  I  will  go,  and  perhaps, 
ere  long,  I  may  sit  me  down  on  some  towering 
mountain,  and  exclaim  with  him,  while  a  hundred 
realms  lie  in  perspective  before  me, 

«  Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine.'*1 

It  was  in  vain  I  entreated  him  to  reflect  ma- 
turely, ere  he  took  so  bold  a  step ;  he  was  deaf  to 
my  importunities,  and  the  next  morning  I  received 
a  letter  informing  me  of  his  departure.  He  was 
observed  about  sun-rise,  sitting  on  the  stile,  at  the 
top  of  an  eminence  which  commanded  a  prospect 
of  the  surrounding  country,  pensively  looking 
towards  the  village.  I  could  divine  his  emotions, 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  393 

on  thus  casting  probably  a  last  look  on  his  native 
place.  The  neat  white  parsonage-house,  with  the 
honeysuckle  mantling  on  its  wall,  I  knew  would 
receive  his  last  glance  ;  and  the  image  of  his  fa- 
ther would  present  itself  to  his  mind,  with  a  mel- 
ancholy pleasure,  as  he  was  thus  hastening,  a  sol- 
itary individual,  to  plunge  himself  into  the  crowds 
of  the  world,  deprived  of  that  fostering  hand 
which  would  otherwise  have  been  his  support  and 
guide. 

From  this  period  Charles  Wanely  was  never 

heard  of  at  L ,  and,  as  his  few  relations  cared 

little  about  him,  in  a  short  time  it  was  almost 
forgotten  that  such  a  being  had  ever  been  in 
existence. 

About  five  years  had  elapsed  from  this  period, 
when  my  occasions  led  me  to  the  continent.  I 
will  confess  I  was  not  without  a  romantic  hope, 
that  I  might  again  meet  with  my  lost  friend  ;  and 
that  often,  with  that  idea,  I  scrutinized  the  fea- 
tures of  the  passengers.  One  fine  moonlight  night, 
as  I  was  strolling  down  the  grand  Italian  Strada 
di  Toledo,  at  Naples,  I  observed  a  crowd  assem- 
bled round  a  man,  who,  with  impassioned  gestures, 
seemed  to  be  vehemently  declaiming  to  the  mul- 
titude. It  was  one  of  the  Improvisator!,  who 
recite  extempore  verses  in  the  streets  of  Naples, 
for  what  money  they  can  collect  from  the  hearers. 
I  stopped  to  listen  to  the  man's  metrical  romance, 
and  had  remained  in  the  attitude  of  attention  some 
time,  when,  happening  to  turn  round,  I  beheld  a 
person  very  shabbily  dressed,  steadfastly  gazing  at 


394  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

me.  The  moon  shone  full  in  his  face.  1  thought 
his  features  were  famiiiiar  to  me.  He  was  pale 
and  emaciated,  and  his  countenance  bore  marks 
of  the  deepest  dejection.  Yet,  amidst  all  these 
changes,  I  thought  I  recognised  Charles  Wanely. 
I  stood  stupified  with  surprise.  My  senses  nearly 
failed  me.  On  recovering  myself,  I  looked  again, 
but  he  had  left  the  spot  the  moment  he  found 
himself  observed.  I  darted  through  the  crowd, 
and  ran  every  way  which  I  thought  he  could  have 
gone,  but  it  was  all  to  no  purpose.  Nobody  knew 
him.  Nobody  had  even  seen  such  a  person.  The 
two  following  days  I  renewed  my  inquiries,  and 
at  last  discovered  the  lodgings  where  a  man  of 
his  description  had  resided.  But  he  had  left 
Naples  the  morning  after  his  form  had  struck  my 
eyes.  I  found  he  gained  a  subsistence  by  draw- 
ing rude  figures  in  chalks  and  vending  them 
among  the  peasantry.  I  could  no  longer  doubt 
it  was  my  friend,  and  immediately  perceived  that 
his  haughty  spirit  could  not  bear  to  be  recognised 
in  such  degrading  circumstances,  by  one  who  had 
known  him  in  better  days.  Lamenting  the  mis- 
guided notions  which  had  thus  again  thrown  him 
from  me,  I  left  Naples,  now  grown  hateful  to  my 
sight,  and  embarked  for  England.  It  is  now 
nearly  twenty  years  since  this  recounter,  during 
which  period  he  has  not  been  heard  of ;  and  there 
can  be  little  doubt  that  this  unfortunate  young 
man  has  found,  in  some  remote  corner  of  the  con- 
tinent, an  obscure  and  an  unlamented  grave. 
Thus,  those  talents  which  were  formed  to  do 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  395 

honor  to  human  nature,  and  to  the  country 
which  gave  them  birth,  have  been  nipped  in  the 
bud  of  the  frosts  of  poverty  and  scorn,  and  their 
unhappy  possessor  lies  in  an  unknown  and  name- 
less tomb,  who  might,  under  happier  circumstances, 
have  risen  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  ambition 
and  renown. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 

(No.  III.) 


Few  know  that  elegance  of  soul  refined, 
Whose  soft,  sensation  feels  a  quicker  joy 
From  melancholy's  scenes,  than  the  dull  pride 
Of  tasteless  splendor  and  magnificence 
Can  e'er  afford. 

Warton's  Melancholy. 


IN  one  of  my  midnight  rambles  down  the  side 
of  the  Trent,  the  river  which  waters  the  place  of 
my  nativity,  as  I  was  musing  on  the  various  evils 
which  darken  the  life  of  man,  and  which  have 
their  rise  in  the  malevolence  and  ill-nature  of  his 


396  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

fellows,  the  sound  of  a  flute  from  an  adjoining 
copse  attracted  my  attention.  The  tune  it  played 
was  mournful,  yet  soothing.  It  was  suited  to  the 
solemnity  of  the  hour.  As  the  distant  notes  came 
wafted  at  intervals  on  my  ear,  now  with  gradual 
swell,  then  dying  away  on  the  silence  of  the 
night,  I  felt  the  tide  of  indignation  subside 
within  me,  and  give  place  to  the  solemn  calm  of 
repose.  I  listened  for  some  time  in  breathless 
ravishment.  The  strain  ceased,  yet  the  sounds 
still  vibrated  on  my  heart,  and  the  visions  of  bliss 
which  they  excited,  still  glowed  on  my  imagina- 
tion. I  was  then  standing  in  one  of  my  favorite 
retreats.  It  was  a  little  alcove,  overshadowed 
with  willows,  and  a  mossy  seat  at  the  back  invited 
to  rest.  I  laid  myself  listlessly  on  the  bank.  The 
Trent  murmured  softly  at  my  feet,  and  the  willows 
sighed  as  they  waved  over  my  head.  It  was  the 
holy  moment  of  repose,  and  I  soon  sunk  into  a 
deep  sleep.  The  operations  of  fancy  in  a  slumber, 
induced  by  a  combination  of  circumstances  so 
powerful  and  uncommon,  could  not  fail  to  be  wild 
and  romantic  in  the  extreme.  Methought  I  found 
myself  in  an  extensive  area,  filled  with  an  immense 
concourse  of  people.  At  one  end  was  a  throne 
of  adamant,  on  which  sat  a  female,  in  whose 
aspect  I  immediately  recognised  a  divinity.  She 
was  clad  in  a  garb  of  azure,  on  her  forehead  she 
bore  a  sun,  whose  splendor  the  eyes  of  many 
were  unable  to  bear,  and  whose  rays  illumined 
the  whole  space,  and  penetrated  into  the  deepest 
recesses  of  darkness.  The  aspect  of  the  goddess 


MELANCHOLY     HOURS.  397 

at  a  distance  was  forbidding,  but  on  a  nearer 
approach,  it  was  mild  and  engaging.  Her  eyes 
were  blue  and  piercing,  and  there  was  a  fascina- 
tion in  her  smile  which  charmed  as  if  by  enchant- 
ment. The  air  of  intelligence  which  beamed  in 
her  look,  made  the  beholder  shrink  into  himself 
with  the  consciousness  of  inferiority  ;  yet  the 
affability  of  her  deportment,  and  the  simplicity 
and  gentleness  of  her  manners,  soon  reassured 
him,  while  the  bewitching  softness  which  she 
could  at  times  assume,  won  his  permanent 
esteem. 

On  inquiry  of  a  by-stander  who  it  was  that  sat 
on  the  throne,  and  what  was  the  occasion  of  so 
uncommon  an  assembly,  he  informed  me  that  it 
was  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom,  who  had  at  last 
succeeded  in  regaining  the  dominion  of  the  earth, 
which  Folly  had  so  long  usurped.  That  she  sat 
there  in  her  judicial  capacity,  in  order  to  try  the 
merits  of  many  who  were  supposed  to  be  the 
secret  emissaries  of  Folly.  In  this  way  I  under- 
stood Envy  and  Malevolence  had  been  sentenced 
to  perpetual  banishment,  though  several  of  their 
adherents  yet  remained  among  men,  whose  minds 
were  too  gross  to  be  irradiated  with  the  light  of 
wisdom.  One  trial  I  understood  was  just  ended, 
arid  another  supposed  delinquent  was  about  to  be 
put  to  the  bar.  With  much  curiosity  I  hurried 
forwards  to  survey  the  figure  which  now 
approached.  She  was  habited  in  black,  and 
veiled  to  the  waist.  Her  pace  was  solemn  and 
majestic,  yet  in  every  movement  was  a  winning 
34 


398  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

gracefulness.  As  she  approached  to  the  bar,  I 
got  a  nearer  view  of  her,  when,  what  was  my 
astonishment  to  recognise  in  her  the  person  of  my 
favorite  goddess,  Melancholy.  Amazed  that  she, 
whom  I  had  always  looked  upon  as  the  sister  and 
companion  of  Wisdom,  should  be  brought  to 
trial  as  an  emissary  and  an  adherent  of  Folly,  I 
waited  in  mute  impatience  for  the  accusation 
which  could  be  framed  against  her. — On  looking 
towards  the  centre  of  the  area,  I  was  much 
surprised  to  see  a  bustling  little  Cit  of  my 
acquaintance,  who,  by  his  hemming  and  clearing, 
I  concluded  was  going  to  make  the  charge.  As 
he  was  a  self-important  little  fellow,  full  of 
consequence  and  business,  and  totally  incapable 
of  all  the  finer  emotions  of  the  soul,  I  could  not 
conceive  what  ground  of  complaint  he  could  have 
against  Melancholy,  who,  I  was  persuaded,  would 
never  have  deigned  to  take  up  her  residence  for  a 
moment  in  his  breast.  When  I  recollected,  how- 
ever, that  he  had  some  sparks  of  ambition  in  his 
composition,  and  that  he  was  an  envious,  carping 
little  mortal,  who  had  formed  the  design  of 
shouldering  himself  into  notice  by  decrying  the 
defects  of  others,  while  he  was  insensible  to  his 
own,  my  amazement  and  my  apprehensions 
vanished,  as  I  perceived  he  only  wanted  to  make 
a  display  of  his  own  talent,  in  doing  which  I  did 
not  fear  his  making  himself  sufficiently  ridiculous. 
After  a  good  deal  of  irrelevant  circumlocution, 
he  boldly  began  the  accusation  of  Melancholy. 
I  shall  not  dwell  upon  many  absurd  and  many 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  399 

invidious  parts  of  his  speech,  nor  upon  the  many 
blunders  in  the  misapplication  of  words,  such  as 
«  deduce"  for  "  detract"  and  others  of  a  similar 
nature,  which  my  poor  friend  committed  in  the 
course  of  his  harangue,  but  shall  only  dwell  upon 
the  material  parts  of  the  charge. 

He  represented  the  prisoner  as  the  offspring  of 
Idleness  and  Discontent,  who  was  at  all  times  a 
sulky,  sullen,  and  "  eminently  useless"  member  of 
the  community,  and  not  unfrequently  a  very 
dangerous  one.  He  declared  it  to  be  his  opinion, 
that  in  case  she  were  to  be  suffered  to  prevail, 
mankind  would  soon  become  "  too  idle  to  go," 
and  would  all  lie  down  and  perish  through  indo- 
lence, or  through  forgetting  that  sustenance  was 
necessary  for  the  preservation  of  existence  ;  and 
concluded  with  painting  the  horrors  which  would 
attend  such  a  depopulation  of  the  earth,  in  such 
colors  as  made  many  weak  minds  regard  the  god- 
dess with  fear  and  abhorrence. 

Having  concluded,  the  accused  was  called  upon 
for  her  defence.  She  immediately,  with  a  graceful 
gesture,  lifted  up  the  veil  which  concealed  her  face, 
and  discovered  a  countenance  so  soft,  so  lovely, 
and  so  sweetly  expressive,  as  to  strike  the  beholders 
with  involuntary  admiration,  and  which,  at  one 
glance  overturned  all  the  flimsy  sophistry  of  my 
poor  friend  the  citizen  ;  and  when  the  silver  tones 
of  her  voice  were  heard,  the  murmurs,  which  until 
then  had  continually  arisen  from  the  crowd  were 
hushed  to  a  dead  still,  and  the  whole  multitude 
stood  transfixed  in  breathless  attention.  As  near 


400  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

as  I  can  recollect,  these  were  the  words  in  which 
she  addressed  herself  to  the  throne  of  wisdom. 

1  shall  not  deign  to  give  a  DIRECT  answer  to 
the  various  insinuations  which  have  been  thrown 
out  against  me  by  my  accuser.  Let  it  suffice  that 
I  declare  my  true  history,  in  opposition  to  that 
which  has  been  so  artfully  fabricated  to  my  disad- 
vantage. In  that  early  age  of  the  world,  when 
mankind  followed  the  peaceful  avocations  of  a 
pastoral  life  only,  and  contentment  and  harmony 
reigned  in  every  vale,  I  was  not  known  among 
men ;  but  when,  in  process  of  time,  Ambition  and 
Vice,  with  their  attendant  evils,  were  sent  down 
as  a  scourge  to  the  human  race,  I  made  my  appear- 
ance. I  am  the  offspring  of  Misfortune  and  Virtue, 
and  was  sent  by  Heaven  to  teach  my  parents  how 
to  support  their  afflictions  with  magnanimity.  As 
I  grew  up,  I  became  the  intimate  friend  of  the 
wisest  among  men.  I  was  the  bosom  friend  ol 
Plato,  and  other  illustrious  sages  of  antiquity,  and 
was  then  often  known  by  the  name  of  Philosophy, 
though,  in  present  times,  when  that  title  is  usurped 
by  mere  makers  of  experiments,  and  inventors  of 
blacking-cakes,  I  am  only  known  by  the  appellation 
of  Melancholy.  So  far  from  being  of  a  discon- 
tented disposition,  my  very  essence  is  pious  and 
resigned  contentment.  I  teach  my  votaries  to 
support  every  vicissitude  of  fortune  with  calmness 
and  fortitude.  It  is  mine  to  subdue  the  stormy 
propensities  of  passion  and  vice,  to  foster  and 
encourage  the  principles  of  benevolence  and  phi- 
lanthropy, and  to  cherish  and  bring  to  perfection 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  401 

the  seeds  of  virtue  and  wisdom.  Though  feared 
and  hated  by  those  who,  like  my  accuser,  are 
ignorant  of  my  nature,  I  am  courted  and  cherished 
by  all  the  truly  wise,  the  good,  and  the  great ;  the 
poet  wooes  me  as  the  goddess  of  inspiration ;  the 
true  philosopher  acknowledges  himself  indebted 
to  me  for  his  most  expansive  views  of  human 
nature  ;  the  good  man  owes  to  me  that  hatred  of 
the  wrong  and  love  of  the  right,  and  that  disdain 
for  the  consequences  which  may  result  from  the 
performance  of  his  duties,  which  keeps  him  good ; 
and  the  religious  flies  to  me  for  the  only  clear  and 
unencumbered  view  of  the  attributes  and  perfec- 
tions of  the  Deity.  So  far  from  being  idle,  my 
mind  is  ever  on  the  wing  in  the  regions  of  fancy, 
or  that  true  philosophy  which  opens  the  book  of 
human  nature,  and  raises  the  soul  above  the  evils 
incident  to  life.  If  I  am  useless,  in  the  same  degree 
were  Plato  arid  Socrates,  Locke  and  Payley,  useless; 
it  is  true  that  my  immediate  influence  is  confined, 
but  its  effects  are  dissiminated  by  means  of  liter- 
ature over  every  age  and  nation,  and  mankind  in 
every  generation,  and  in  every  clime,  may  look  to 
me  as  their  remote  illuminator,  the  original  spring 
of  the  principal  intellectual  benefits  they  possess. 
But  as  there  is  no  good  without  its  attendant  evil, so 
I  have  an  elder  sister,  called  Phrenzy,  for  whom  1 
have  often  been  mistaken,  who  sometimes  follows 
close  on  my  steps,  and  to  her  I  owe  much  of  the 
obloquy  which  is  attached  to  my  name ;  though 
the  peurile  accusation  which  has  just  been  brought 
34* 


402  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

against  me  turns  on  points  which  apply  more 
exclusively  to  myself. 

She  ceased,  and  a  dead  pause  ensued.  The 
multitude  seemed  struck  with  the  fascination  of 
her  utterance  and  gesture,  and  the  sounds  of  her 
voice  still  seemed  to  vibrate  on  every  ear.  The 
attention  of  the  assembly,  however,  was  soon 
recalled  to  the  accuser,  and  their  indignation  at 
his  baseness  rose  to  such  a  height  as  to  threaten 
general  tumult,  when  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom 
arose,  and,  waving  her  hand  for  silence,  beckoned 
the  prisoner  to  her,  placed  her  on  her  right  hand, 
and,  with  a  sweet  smile,  acknowledged  her  for  her 
old  companion  and  friend.  She  then  turned  to 
the  accuser,  with  a  frown  of  severity  so  terrible, 
that  I  involuntarily  started  with  terror  from  my 
poor  misguided  friend,  and  with  the  violence  of 
the  start  I  awoke,  and,  instead  of  the  throne  of  the 
Goddess  of  Wisdom,  and  the  vast  assembly  of 
people,  beheld  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  peeping 
over  the  eastern  cloud ;  and,  instead  of  the  loud 
murmurs  of  the  incensed  multitude,  heard  nothing 
but  the  soft  gurgling  of  the  river  at  my  feet,  and 
the  rustling  wing  of  the  sky-lark,  who  was  now 
beginning  his  first  matin-song. 

W 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  403 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(No.  IV.) 


ISOCR. 


THE  world  has  often  heard  of  fortune-hunters, 
legacy-hunters,  popularity -hunters,  and  hunters  of 
various  descriptions — one  diversity,  however,  of 
this  very  extensive  species  has  hitherto  eluded 
public  animadversion;  I  allude  to  the  class  of 
friend-hunters — men  who  make  it  the  business  of 
their  lives  to  acquire  friends,  in  the  hope,  through 
their  influence,  to  arrive  at  some  desirable  point 
of  ambitious  eminence.  Of  all  the  mortifications 
and  anxieties  to  which  mankind  voluntarily  subject 
themselves,  from  the  expectation  of  future  benefit, 
there  are,  perhaps,  none  more  galling,  none  more 
insupportable,  than  those  attendant  on  friend- 
making. — Show  a  man  that  you  court  his  society, 
and  it  is  a  signal  for  him  to  treat  you  with 
neglect  and  contumely.  Humor  his  passions, 
and  he  despises  you  as  a  sycophant.  Pay  implicit 
deference  to  his  opinions,  and  he  laughs  at  you  for 
your  folly.  In  all,  he  views  you  with  contempt, 
as  the  creature  of  his  will,  and  the  slave  of  his 


404  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

caprice.  I  remember  I  once  solicited  the  acquaint- 
ance and  coveted  the  friendship  of  one  man,  and, 
thank  God,  I  can  yet  say  (and  I  hope  on  my  death- 
bed I  shall  be  able  to  say  the  same)  of  O:STLY  one 
man. 

Germanicus  was  a  character  of  considerable 
eminence  in  the  literary  world.  He  had  the  repu- 
tation not  only  of  an  enlightened  understanding  and 
refined  taste,  but  of  openness  of  heart  and  good- 
ness of  disposition.  His  name  always  carried 
with  it  that  weight  and  authority  which  are  due 
to  learning  and  genius  in  every  situation.  His 
manners  were  polished,  and  his  conversation 
elegant.  In  short,  he  possessed  every  qualification 
which  could  render  him  an  enviable  addition  to 
the  circle  of  every  man's  friends.  With  such  a 
character,  as  I  was  then  very  young,  I  could  not 
fail  to  feel  an  ambition  of  becoming  acquainted, 
when  the  opportunity  offered,  and  in  a  short  time 
we  were  upon  terms  of  familiarity.  To  ripen  this 
familiarity  into  friendship,  as  far  as  the  most 
awkward  diffidence  would  permit,was  my  strenuous 
endeavor.  If  his  opinions  contradicted  mine,  1 
immediately,  without  reasoning  on  the  subject, 
conceded  the  point  to  him  as  a  matter  of  course  __ 
that  he  must  be  right,  and  by  consequence  that 
I  must  be  wrong.  Did  he  utter  a  witticism,  I  was 
sure  to  laugh ;  and  if  he  looked  grave,  though 
nobody  could  tell  why,  it  was  mine  to  groan.  By 
thus  conforming  myself  to  his  humor,  I  flattered 
myself  I  was  making  some  progress  in  his  good 
graces,  but  I  was  soon  undeceived.  A  man  seldom 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  405 

cares  much  for  that  which  costs  him  no  pains  to 
procure.  Whether  Germanicus  found  me  a  trou- 
blesome visitor,  or  whether  he  was  really  displeased 
with  something  I  had  unwittingly  said  or  done, 
certain  it  is,  that  when  I  met  him  one  day,  in 
company  with  persons  of  apparent  figure,  he  had 
lost  all  recollection  of  my  features.  I  called  upon 
him,  but  Germanicus  was  not  at  home.  Again 
and  again  I  gave  a  hesitating  knock  at  the  great 
man's  door — all  was  to  no  purpose.  He  was  still 
not  at  home.  The  sly  meaning,  however,  which 
was  couched  in  the  sneer  of  the  servant  the  last 
time  that,  half  ashamed  of  my  errand,  I  made  my 
inquiries  at  his  house,  convinced  me  of  what  I 
ought  to  have  known  before,  that  Germanicus  was 
at  home  to  all  the  world  save  me.  I  believe,  with 
all  my  seeming  humility,  I  am  a  confounded  proud 
fellow  at  bottom  ;  my  rage  at  this  discovery,  there- 
fore, may  be  better  conceived  than  described.  Ten 
thousand  curses  did  I  imprecate  on  the  foolish 
vanity  which  led  me  to  solicit  the  friendship  of 
my  superior,,  and  again  and  again  did  I  vow  down 
eternal  vengeance  on  my  head,  if  I  evermore 
condescended  thus  to  court  the  acquaintance  of 
man.  To  this  resolution  I  believe  I  shall  ever 
adhere.  If  I  am  destined  to  make  any  progress  in 
the  world,  it  will  be  by  my  own  individual  exer- 
tions. As  I  elbow  my  way  through  the  crowded 
vale  of  life,  I  will  never,  in  any  emergency,  call 
on  my  selfish  neighbor  for  assistance.  If  my 
strength  give  way  beneath  the  pressure  of 
calamity,  I  shall  sink  without  his  whine  of  hypo- 


406  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

critical  condolence  ;  and  if  I  do  sink,  let  him  kick 
me  into  a  ditch,  and  go  about  his  business.  I 
asked  not  his  assistance  while  living,  it  will  be  of 
no  service  to  me  when  dead. 

Believe  me,  reader,  whoever  thou  mayest  be, 
there  are  few  among  mortals  whose  friendship, 
when  acquired,  will  repay  thee  for  the  meanness 
of  solicitation.  If  a  man  voluntarily  holds  out 
his  hand  to  thee,  take  it  with  caution.  If  thou 
find  him  honest,  be  not  backward  to  receive  his 
proffered  assistance,  and  be  anxious,  when  occa- 
sion shall  require,  to  yield  to  him  thine  own.  A 
real  friend  is  the  most  valuable  blessing  a  man 
can  possess,  and,  mark  me,  it  is  by  far  the  most 
rare.  It  is  a  black  swan.  But,  whatever  thou 
mayest  do,  solicit  not  friendship.  If  thou  art 
young,  and  would  make  thy  way  in  the  world, 
bind  thyself  a  seven  year's  apprentice  to  a  city 
tallow-chandler,  and  thou  mayest  in  time  come  to 
be  lord  mayor.  Many  people  have  made  their 
fortunes  at  a  tailor's  board.  Periwig-makers  have 
been  known  to  buy  their  country-seats,  and 
bellows-menders  have  started  their  curricles ;  but 
seldom,  very  seldom,  has  the  man  who  placed  his 
dependence  on  the  friendship  of  his  fellow-men 
arrived  at  even  the  shadow  of  the  honors  to  which, 
through  that  medium,he  aspired.  Nay,even  if  thou 
shouldst  find  a  friend  ready  to  lend  thee  a  helping 
hand,  the  moment,  by  his  assistance,  thou  hast 
gained  some  little  eminence,  he  will  be  the  first  to 
hurl  thee  down  to  thy  primitive,  and  now, 
perhaps,  irremediable  obscurity. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  407 

Yet  I  see  no  more  reason  for  complaint  on  the 
ground  of  the  fallacy  of  human  friendship,  than  I 
do  for  any  other  ordonnance  of  nature,  which  may 
appear  to  run  counter  to  our  happiness.  Man  is 
naturally  a  selfish  creature,  and  it  is  only  by  the 
aid  of  philosophy  that  he  can  so  far  conquer  the 
defects  of  his  being,  as  to  be  capable  of  disin- 
terested friendship,  JVho,  then,  can  expect  to 
find  that  benign  disposition,  which  manifests  itself 
in  acts  of  disinterested  benevolence  and  sponta- 
neous affection,  a  common  visitor  ?  Who  can  preach 
philosophy  to  the  mob  ? 

The  recluse,  who  does  not  easily  assimilate 
with  the  herd  of  mankind,  and  whose  manners 
with  difficulty  bend  to  the  peculiarilies  of  others, 
is  not  likely  to  have  many  real  friends.  His 
enjoyments,  therefore,  must  be  solitary,  lone,  and 
melancholy.  His  only  friend  is  himself.  As  he 
sits  immersed  in  reverie  by  his  midnight  fire,  and 
hears  without  the  wild  gusts  of  wind  fitfully 
careering  over  the  plain,  he  listens  sadly  attentive ; 
and  as  the  varied  intonations  of  the  howling  blast 
articulate  to  his  enthusiastic  ear,  he  converses 
with  the  spirits  of  the  departed,  while,  bet  ween  each 
dreary  pause  of  the  storm,  he  holds  solitary  com- 
munion with  himself.  Such  is  the  social  intercourse 
of  the  recluse ;  yet  he  frequently  feels  the  soft 
consolations  of  friendship.  A  heart  formed  for  the 
gentler  emotions  of  the  soul,  often  feels  as  strong 
an  interest  for  what  are  called  brutes,  as  most 
bipeds  affect  to  feel  for  each  other.  Montaigne 
had  his  cat ;  I  have  read  of  a  man  whose  only 


408  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

friend  was  a  large  spider ;  and  Trenck,  in  his 
dungeon,  would  sooner  have  lost  his  right  hand 
than  the  poor  little  mouse,  which,  grown  confident 
with  indulgence,  used  to  beguile  the  tedious  hours 
of  imprisonment  with  its  gambols.  For  my  own 
part,  I  believe  my  dog,  who,  at  this  moment, 
seated  on  his  hinder  legs,  is  wistfully  surveying  me, 
as  if  he  was  conscious  of  all  that  is  passing  in  my 
mind  : — my  dog,  I  say,  is  as  sincere,  and,  whatever 
the  world  may  see,  nearly  as  dear  a  friend,  as 
any  I  possess ;  and,  when  I  shall  receive  that 
summons  which  may  not  now  be  far  distant,  he 
will  whine  a  funeral  requiem  over  my  grave, 
more  piteously  than  all  the  hired  mourners  in 
Christendom.  Well,  well,  poor  Bob  has  had  a 
kind  master  of  me,  and,  for  my  own  part,  I  verily 
believe  there  are  few  things  on  this  earth  I  shall 
leave  with  more  regret  than  this  faithful  companion 
of  the  happy  hours  of  my  infancy. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  409 

MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(No.  V.) 


Un  Sonnet  sans  defaut  vaut  seul  un  long  poeme, 
Mais  en  vain  mille  auteurs  y  pensent  arriver ; 

A  peine  

.peut-on  admirer  deus  ou  trois  entre  mille. 

BoiLKAU. 


THERE  is  no  species  of  poetry  which  is  better 
adapted  to  the  taste  of  a  melancholy  man  than  the 
sonnet.  While  its  brevity  precludes  the  possibility 
of  its  becoming  tiresome,  and  its  full  and 
expected  close  accords  well  with  his  dejected,  and 
perhaps  somewhat  languid  tone  of  mind,  its 
elegiac  delicacy  and  querimonious  plaintiveness 
come  in  pleasing  consonance  with  his  feelings. 

This  elegant  little  poem  has  met  with  a  peculiar 
fate  in  this  country :  half  a  century  ago  it  was 
regarded  as  utterly  repugnant  to  the  nature 
of  our  language,  while  at  present  it  is  the  popular 
vehicle  of  the  most  admired  sentiments  of  our 
best  living  poets.  This  remarkable  mutation  in 
35 


410  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

the  opinions  of  our  countrymen,  may,  however, 
be  accounted  for  on  plain  and  common  principles. 
The  earlier  English  sonneteers  confined  themselves 
in  general  too  strictly  to  the  Italian  model,  as  well  in 
the  disposition  of  the  rhymes,  as  in  the  cast  of  the 
ideas.  A  sonnet  with  them  was  only  another 
word  for  some  metaphysical  conceit  or  clumsy 
antithesis,  contained  in  fourteen  harsh  lines,  full  of 
obscure  inversions  and  ill-managed  expletives. 
They  bound  themselves  down  to  a  pattern  which 
was  in  itself  faulty,  and  they  met  with  the  common 
fate  of  servile  imitators,  in  retaining  all  the  defects 
of  their  original,  while  they  suffered  the  beauties 
to  escape  in  the  process.  Their  sonnets  are  like 
copies  of  a  bad  picture,  however  accurately  copied, 
they  are  still  bad.  Our  contemporaries,  on  the 
contrary,  have  given  scope  to  their  genius  in  the 
sonnet  without  restraint,  sometimes  even  growing 
licentious  in  their  liberty,  setting  at  defiance  those 
rules  which  form  its  distinguishing  peculiarity,  and, 
under  the  name  of  sonnet,  soaring  or  falling  into 
ode  or  elegy.  Their  compositions,  of  course,  are 
impressed  with  all  those  excellencies  which  would 
have  marked  their  respective  productions  in  any 
similar  walk  of  poetry. 

It  has  never  been  disputed  that  the  sonnet  first 
arrived  at  celebrity  in  the  Italian :  a  language 
which,  as  it  abounds  in  a  musical  similarity  of 
terminations,  is  more  eminently  qualified  to  give 
ease  and  eloquence  to  the  legitimate  sonnet, 
restricted  as  it  is  to  stated  and  frequently-recurring 
rhymes  of  the  same  class.  As  to  the  inventors  of 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  411 

this  little  structure  of  verse,  they  are  involved  in 
impenetrable  obscurity.  Some  authors  have 
ascribed  it  singly  to  Guitone  D'Arezzo,  an  Italian 
poet  of  the  thirteenth  century,  but  they  have  no 
sort  of  authority  to  adduce  in  support  of  their 
assertions.  Arguing  upon  probabilities,  with  some 
slight  coincidental  corroborations,  I  should  be 
inclined  to  maintain  that  its  origin  may  be  referred 
to  an  earlier  period ;  that  it  may  be  looked  for 
among  the  Proven£als,  who  left  scarcely  any 
combination  of  metrical  sounds  unattempted  ;  and 
who,  delighting  as  they  did  in  sound  and  jingle, 
might  very  possibly  strike  out  this  harmonious 
stanza  of  fourteen  lines.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Dante 
and  Petrarch  were  the  first  poets  who  rendered  it 
popular,  and  to  Dante  and  Petrarch  therefore  we 
must  resort  for  its  required  rules. 

In  an  ingenious  paper  of  Dr.  Drake's  "  Literary 
Hours,"  a  book  which  I  have  read  again  and 
again  with  undiminished  pleasure,  the  merits  of 
the  various  English  writers  in  this  delicate  mode 
of  composition  are  appreciated  with  much  justice 
and  discrimination.  His  veneration  for  Milton, 
however,  has,  if  I  may  venture  to  oppose  my  judg- 
ment to  his,  carried  him  too  far  in  praise  of  his 
sonnets.  Those  to  the  Nightingale  and  to  Mr. 
Lawrence  are,  I  think,  alone  entitled  to  the  praise 
of  mediocrity,  and,  if  my  memory  fail  me  not, 
my  opinion  is  sanctioned  by  the  testimony  of  our 
late  illustrious  biographer  of  the  poets. 

The  sonnets  of  Drummond  are  characterized 
as  exquisite.  It  is  somewhat  strange,  if  this  des- 


412  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

cription  be  just,  that  they  should  so  long  have  sunk 
into  utter  oblivion,  and  be  revived  only  by  a 
species  of  black-letter  mania,  which  prevailed 
during  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
and  of  which  some  vestiges  yet  remain  ;  the  more 
especially  as  Dr.  Johnson,  to  whom  they  could 
scarcely  be  unknown,  tells  us,  that  "  The  fabric 
of  the  sonnet  has  never  succeeded  in  our  lan- 
guage." For  my  own  part  I  can  say  nothing  of 
them.  I  have  long  sought  a  copy  of  Drummond's 
works,  and  I  have  sought  it  in  vain ;  but  from 
specimens  which  I  nave  casually  met  with,  in 
quotations,  I  am  forcibly  inclined  to  favor  the 
idea,  that,  as  they  possess  natural  and  pathetic 
sentiments,  clothed  in  tolerably  harmonious  lan- 
guage, they  are  entitled  to  the  praise  which  has 
been  so  liberally  bestowed  on  them. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Astrophel  and  Stella  consists 
of  a  number  of  sonnets,  which  have  been  unac- 
countably passed  over  by  Dr.  Drake,  and  all  our 
other  critics  who  have  written  on  this  subject. 
Many  of  them  are  eminently  beautiful.  The 
Avorks  of  this  neglected  poet  may  occupy  a  future 
number  of  my  lucubrations. 

Excepting  these  two  poets,  I  believe  there  is 
scarcely  a  writer  who  has  arrived  at  any  degree 
of  excellence  in  the  sonnet,  until  of  late  years, 
when  our  vernacular  bards  have  raised  it  to  a 
degree  of  eminence  and  dignity  among  the  various 
kinds  of  poetical  composition,  which  seems  to  us 
almost  incompatible  with  its  very  circumscribed 
limits. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  413 

Passing  over  the  classical  compositions  of  Whar- 
ton,  which  are  formed  more  on  the  model  of  the 
Greek  epigram,  or  epitaph,  than  the  Italian  sonnet, 
Mr.  Bowles  and  Charlotte  Smith  are  the  first  mod- 
ern writers  who  have  met  with  distinguished  suc- 
cess in  the  sonnet.  Those  of  the  former,  in  par- 
ticular, are  standards  of  excellence  in  this  depart- 
ment. To  much  natural  and  accurate  description, 
they  unite  a  strain  of  the  most  exquisitely  tender 
and  delicate  sentiment ;  and,  with  a  nervous 
strength  of  diction,  and  a  wild  freedom  of  versi- 
fication, they  combine  an  euphonious  melody,  and 
consonant  cadence,  unequalled  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. While  they  possess,  however,  the  superior 
merit  of  an  original  style,  they  are  not  unfrequently 
deformed  by  instances  of  that  ambitious  singular- 
ity which  is  but  too  frequently  its  concomitant. 
Of  these  the  introduction  of  rhymes  long  since 
obsolete,  is  not  the  least  striking.  Though,  in 
some  cases,  these  revivals  of  antiquated  phrase 
have  a  pleasing  effect,  yet  they  are  oftentimes 
uncouth  and  repulsive.  Mr.  Bowles  has  almost 
always  thrown  aside  the  common  rules  of  the 
sonnet;  his  pieces  have  no  more  claim  to  that 
specific  denomination,  than  that  they  are  confined 
to  fourteen  lines.  How  far  this  deviation  from 
established  principle  is  justifiable,  may  be  dis- 
puted :  for  if,  on  the  one  hand,  it  be  alleged  that  the 
confinement  to  the  stated  repetition  of  rhymes,  so 
distant  and  frequent,  is  a  restraint  which  is  not 
compensated  by  an  adequate  effect  on  the  other,  it 
must  be  conceded,  that  these  little  poems  are  no 
35* 


414 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 


longer  sonnets  than  while  they  conform  to  the 
rules  of  the  sonnet,  and  that  the  moment  they  for- 
sake them,  they  ought  to  resign  the  appellation. 

The  name  bears  evident  affinity  to  the  Italian 
sonaire,  "to  resound" — "  Sing  around,"  which 
originated  in  the  Latin  sonans, — sounding,  jing- 
ling, ringing :  or,  indeed,  it  may  come  imme- 
diately from  the  French  sonner,  to  sound,  or  ring, 
in  which  language,  it  is  observable,  we  first  meet 
with  the  word  sonnette,  where  it  signifies  a  little 
bell,  and  sonnettier,  a  maker  of  little  bells ;  and 
this  derivation  affords  a  presumption,  almost 
amounting  to  certainty,  that  the  conjecture  before 
advanced,  that  the  sonnet  originated  with  the 
Provencals,  is  well  founded.  It  is  somewhat 
strange  that  these  contending  derivations  have  not 
been  before  observed,  as  they  tend  to  settle  a 
question,  which,  however  intrinsically  unim- 
portant, is  curious  and  has  been  much  agitated. 

But,  wherever  the  name  originated,  it  evidently 
bears  relation  only  to  the  peculiarity  of  a  set  of 
chiming  and  jingling  terminations,  and  of  course 
can  no  longer  be  applied  with  propriety  where  that 
peculiarity  is  not  preserved. 

The  single  stanza  of  fourteen  lines,  properly 
varied  in  their  correspondent  closes,  is,  notwith- 
standing, so  well  adapted  for  the  expression  of  any 
pathetic  sentiment,  and  is  so  pleasing  and  satis- 
factory to  the  ear  when  once  accustomed  to  it,  that 
our  poetry  would  suffer  a  material  loss  were  it  to 
be  disused  through  a  rigid  adherence  to  mere 
propriety  of  name.  At  the  same  time,  our 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  415 

language  does  not  supply  a  sufficiency  of  similar 
terminations  to  render  the  strict  observance  of  its 
rules  at  all  easy,  or  compatible  with  ease  or 
elegance.  The  only  question,  therefore,  is,  whether 
the  musical  effect  produced  by  the  adherence  to 
this  difficult  structure  of  verse  overbalance  the 
restraint  it  imposes  on  the  poet,  and  in  case  we 
decide  in  the  negative,  whether  we  ought  to 
preserve  the  denomination  of  sonnet,  when  we 
utterly  renounce  the  very  peculiarities  which 
procured  it  that  cognomen. 

In  the  present  enlightened  age,  I  think  it  will 
not  be  disputed  that  mere  jingle  and  sound  ought 
invariably  to  be  sacrificed  to  sentiment  and  expres- 
sion. Musical  effect  is  a  very  subordinate 
consideration ;  it  is  the  gilding  to  the  cornices  of  a 
Vitruvian  edifice  ;  the  coloring  to  a  shaded  design 
of  Michael  Angelo.  In  its  place,  it  adds  to  the 
effect  of  the  whole  ;  but,  when  rendered  a  principal 
object  of  attention,  it  is  ridiculous  and  disgusting. 
Rhyme  is  no  necessary  adjunct  of  true  poetry. 
Southey's  Thalaba  is  a  fine  poem,  with  no  rhyme, 
and  very  little  measure  or  metre  ;  and  the  produc- 
tion which  is  reduced  to  mere  prose,  by  being 
deprived  of  its  jingle,  could  never  possess,  in  any 
state  the  marks  of  inspiration. 

So  far,  therefore,  I  am  of  opinion  that  it  is 
advisable  to  renounce  the  Italian  fabric  altogether. 
We  have  already  sufficient  restrictions  laid  upon 
us  by  the  metrical  laws  of  our  native  tongue,  and 
I  do  not  see  any  reason,  out  of  a  blind  regard  for 
precedent,  to  tie  ourselves  to  a  difficult  structure  of 


416  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

verse,  which  probably  originated  with  the  Trou- 
badours, or  wandering  bards  of  France  and  Nor- 
mandy, or  with  a  yet  ruder  race,  one  which  is  not 
productive  of  any  rational  effect,  and  which  only 
pleases  the  ear  by  frequent  repitition,  as  men  who 
have  once  had  the  greatest  aversion  to  strong  wines 
and  spirituous  liquors,  are,  by  habit,  at  last  brought 
to  regard  them  as  delicacies. 

In  advancing  this  opinion,  I  am  aware  that  I  am 
opposing  myself  to  the  declared  sentiments  of 
many  individuals  whom  I  greatly  respect  and 
admire.  Miss  Seward  (and  Miss  Seward  is  in 
herself  a  host)  has,  both  theoretically  and  practi- 
cally, defended  the  Italian  structure.  Mr.  Capel 
Lofft  has  likewise  favored  the  world  with  many 
sonnets,  in  which  he  shows  his  approval  of  the 
legitimate  model  by  his  adherence  to  its  rules,  and 
many  of  the  beautiful  poems  of  Mrs.  Lofft, 
published  in  the  Monthly  Mirror,  are  likewise 
successfully  formed  by  those  rules.  Much,  how- 
ever, as  I  admire  these  writers,  and  ample  as  is 
the  credence  I  give  to  their  critical  discrimination, 
1  cannot,  on  mature  reflection,  subscribe  to  their 
position  of  the  expediency  of  adopting  this  structure 
in  our  poetry,  and  I  attribute  their  success  in  it 
more  to  their  individual  powers,  which  would  have 
§urmounted  much  greater  difficulties,  than  to  the 
adaptability  of  this  foreign  fabric  to  our  stubborn 
and  intractable  language. 

If  the  question,  however,  turn  only  on  the  pro- 
priety of  giving  to  a  poem  a  name  which  must  be 
acknowledged  to  be  entirely  inappropriate,  and  to 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  417 

which  it  can  have  no  sort  of  claim,  I  must  confess 
that  it  is  manifestly  indefensible;  and  we  must 
then  either  pitch  upon  another  appellation  for  our 
quatorzain,  or  banish  it  from  our  language;  a 
measure  which  every  lover  of  poetry  must  sin- 
cerely lament. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 

(No.  VI.) 


Full  many  a  flow'r  is  bora  to  blush  unseen 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Gray. 


POETRY  is  a  blossom  of  very  delicate  growth ; 
it  requires  the  maturing  influence  of  vernal  suns, 
and  every  encouragement  of  culture  and  attention, 
to  bring  it  to  its  natural  perfection.  The  pursuits 
of  the  mathematician,  or  the  mechanical  genius, 
are  such  as  require  rather  strength  and  insensibil- 
ity of  mind,  than  that  exquisite  and  finely-wrought 
susceptibility,  which  invariably  marks  the  temper- 
ament of  the  true  poet ;  and  it  is  for  this  reason, 
that,  while  men  of  science  have  not  unfrequently 
arisen  from  the  abodes  of  poverty  and  labor, 


418  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

very  few  legitimate  children  of  the  Muse  have 
ever  emerged  from  the  shades  of  hereditary 
obscurity. 

It  is  painful  to  reflect  how  many  a  bard  now 
lies  nameless  and  forgotten,  in  the  narrow  house, 
who,  had  he  been  born  in  competence  and  leisure, 
might  have  usurped  the  laurels  from  the  most 
distinguished  personages  in  the  temple  of  Fame. 
The  very  consciousness  of  merit  itself  often  acts  in 
direct  opposition  to  a  stimulus  to  exertion,  by  ex- 
iting that  mournful  indignation  at  supposititious 
neglect,  which  urges  a  sullen  concealment  of  tal- 
ent, and  drives  its  possessor  to  that  misanthropic 
discontent  which  preys  on  the  vitals,  and  soon 
produces  untimely  mortality.  A  sentiment  like 
this  has,  no  doubt,  often  actuated  beings,  who 
attracted  notice,  perhaps,  while  they  lived,  only 
by  their  singularity,  and  who  were  forgotten 
almost  ere  their  parent  earth  had  closed  over  their 
heads, — beings  who  lived  but  to  mourn  and  to 
languish  for  what  they  were  never  destined  to 
enjoy,  and  whose  exalted  endowments  were 
buried  with  them  in  their  graves,  by  the  want  of  a 
little  of  that  superfluity  which  serves  to  pamper 
the  debased  appetites  of  the  enervated  sons  of 
luxury  and  sloth. 

The  present  age,  however,  has  furnished  us  with 
two  illustrious  instances  of  poverty  bursting  through 
the  cloud  of  surrounding  impediments  into  the  full 
blaze  of  notoriety  and  eminence.  I  allude  to  the 
two  Bloomfields,  bards  who  may  challenge  a  com- 
parison with  the  most  distinguished  favorites  of 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  419 

the  Muse,  and  who  both  passed  the  day-spring  of 
life,  in  labor,  indigence,  and  obscurity. 

The  author  of  the  Farmer's  Boy  hath  already 
received  the  applause  he  justly  deserved.  It  yet 
remains  for  the  Essay  on  War  to  enjoy  all  the  dis- 
tinction it  so  richly  merits,  as  well  from  its  sterling 
worth,  as  from  the  circumstance  of  its  author. 
Whether  the  present  age  will  be  inclined  to  do  it 
full  justice,  may  indeed  be  feared.  Had  Mr.  Na- 
thaniel Bloomfield  made  his  appearance  in  the 
horizon  of  letters  prior  to  his  brother,  he  would 
undoubtedly  have  been  considered  as  a  meteor  of 
uncommon  attraction ;  the  critics  would  have 
admired,  because  it  would  have  been  the  fashion 
to  admire.  But  it  is  to  be  apprehended  that  our 
countrymen  become  inured  to  phenomena  ; — it  is 
to  be  apprehended  that  the  frivolity  of  the  age 
cannot  endure  a  repetition  of  the  uncommon — that 
it  will  no  longer  be  the  rage  to  patronise  indigent 
merit :  that  the  beau  monde  will  therefore  neglect, 
and  that,  by  a  necessary  consequence,  the  critics 
will  sneer  !  ! 

Nevertheless,  sooner  or  later,  merit  will  meet 
with  its  reward ;  and  though  the  popularity  of 
Mr.  Bloomfield  may  be  delayed,  he  must,  at  one 
time  or  other,  receive  the  meed  due  to  its  deserts. 
Posterity  will  judge  impartially  ;  and  if  bold  and 
vivid  images,  and  original  conceptions,  luminously 
displayed,  and  judiciously  opposed,  have  any  claim 
to  the  regard  of  mankind,  the  name  of  Nathaniel 
Bloomfield  will  not  be  without  its  high  and  appro- 
priate honors. 


420  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

Rosseau  very  truly  observes,  that  with  whatever 
talent  a  man  may  be  born,  the  art  of  writing  is 
not  easily  obtained.  If  this  be  applicable  to  men 
enjoying  every  advantage  of  scholastic  initiation, 
how  much  more  forcibly  must  it  apply  to  the 
offspring  of  a  poor  village  tailor,  untaught,  and 
destitute  both  of  the  means  and  the  time  necessary 
for  the  cultivation  of  the  mind !  If  the  art  of 
writing  be  of  difficult  attainment  to  those  who 
make  it  the  study  of  their  lives,  what  must  it  be  to 
him,  who,  perhaps,  for  the  first  forty  years  of  his 
life,  never  entertained  a  thought  that  any  thing  he 
could  write  would  be  deemed  worthy  the  attention 
of  the  public ! — whose  only  time  for  rumination 
was  such  as  a  sedentary  and  sickly  employment 
would  allow ;  on  the  tailor's  board,  surrounded 
with  men,  perhaps,  of  depraved  and  rude  habits, 
and  impure  conversation  ! 

And  yet  Mr.  N.  Bloomfield's  poems  display 
acuteness  of  remark,  and  delicacy  of  sentiment, 
combined  with  much  strength,  and  considerable 
selection  of  diction,  few  will  deny.  The  Paean  to 
Gunpowder  would  alone  prove  both  his  power  of 
language,  and  the  fertility  of  his  imagination ;  and 
the  following  extract  presents  him  to  us  in  the  still 
higher  character  of  a  bold  and  vivid  painter. 
Describing  the  field  after  a  battle,  he  says, 

Now  here  and  there,  about  the  horrid  field, 
Striding  across  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Stalks  up  a  man,  by  strength  superior, 
Or  skill  and  prowess  in  the  arduous  fight, 
Preserv'd  alive  : — fainting  he  looks  around ; 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  421 

Fearing  pursuit — not  caring  to  pursue. 
The  supplicating  voice  of  bitterest  moans, 
Contortions  of  excruciating  pain, 
The  shriek  of  torture,  and  the  groan  of  death, 
Surround  him ; — and  as  Night  her  mantle  spreads, 
To  veil  the  horrors  of  the  mourning  field, 
With  cautious  step  shaping  his  devious  way, 
He  seeks  a  covert  where  to  hide  and  rest: 
At  every  leaf  that  rustles  in  the  breeze 
Starting,  he  grasps  his  sword ;  and  every  nerve 
Is  ready  strained,  for  combat  or  for  flight. 

P.  12.  Essay  on  War. 

If  Mr.  Bloomfield  had  written  nothing  besides 
the  Elegy  on  the  Enclosure  of  Honington  Green, 
he  would  have  had  a  right  to  be  considered  as  a 
poet  of  no  mean  excellence.  The  heart  which 
can  read  passages  like  the  following  without  a 
sympathetic  emotion,  must  be  dead  to  every 
feeling  of  sensibility. 

STANZA  VI. 

The  pioud  city's  gay  wealthy  train, 

Who  nought  but  refinement  adore, 
May  wonder  to  hear  me  complain 

That  Honington  Green  is  no  more ; 
But  if  to  the  church  you  e'er  went, 

If  you  knew  what  the  village  has  been, 
You  will  sympathize  while  I  lament 

The  enclosure  of  Honington  Green. 

VII. 

That  no  more  upon  Honington  Green 
Dwells  the  matron  whom  most  I  revere, 
36 


422  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

If  by  pert  Observation  unseen, 

1  e'en  now  could  indulge  a  fond  tear. 

Ere  her  bright  morn  of  life  was  o'ercast, 
When  my  senses  first  woke  to  the  scene, 

Some  short  happy  hours  she  had  past 
On  the  margin  of  Honington  Green. 

VIII. 

Her  parents  with  plenty  were  blest, 
And  numerous  her  children,  and  young, 

Youth's  blossoms  her  cheek  yet  possest,    , 

And  melody  woke  when  she  sung: 
A  widow  so  youthful  to  leave, 

(Early  clos'd  the  blest  days  he  had  seen,) 
My  father  was  laid  in  his  giave, 

In  the  church-yard  on  Honington  Green. 


XXL 

Dear  to  me  was  the  wild  thorny  hill, 
And  dear  the  brown  heath's  sober  scene; 

And  youth  shall  find  happiness  still, 

Though  he  rove  not  on  common  or  green. 


XXII. 

So  happily  flexile  man's  make, 

So  pliantly  docile  his  mind, 
Surrounding  impressions  we  take, 

And  bliss  in  each  circumstance  find. 
The  youths  of  a  more  polish'd  age 

Shall  not  wish  these  rude  commons  to  see; 
To  the  bird  that's  inur'd  to  the  cage, 

It  would  not  be  bliss  to  be  free. 


MELANOHOLY   HOURS.  423 

There  is  a  sweet  and  tender  melancholy  per- 
vades the  elegiac  ballad  efforts  of  Mr.  Bloomfield, 
which  has  the  most  indescribable  effects  on  the 
heart.  Were  the  versification  a  little  more 
polished,  in  some  instances,  they  would  be  read 
with  unmixed  delight.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he 
will  cultivate  this  engaging  species  of  composition, 
and,  (if  I  may  venture  to  throw  out  the  hint,)  if 
judgment  may  be  formed  from  the  poems  he  has 
published,  he  would  excel  in  sacred  poetry. 
Most  heartily  do  I  recommend  the  lyre  of  David 
to  this  engaging  bard.  Divine  topics  have  seldom 
been  touched  upon  with  success  by  our  modern 
Muses:  they  afford  a  field  in  which 'he  would 
have  few  competitors,  and  it  is  a  field  worthy  of 
his  abilities. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 

(No.  VII.) 

IP  the  situation  of  man,  in  the  present  life,  be 
considered  in  all  its  relations  and  dependencies, 
a  striking  inconsistency  will  be  apparent  to  a  very 
cursory  observer.  We  have  sure  warrant  for  be- 
lieving that  our  abode  here  is  to  form  a  compara- 
tively insignificant  part  of  our  existence,  and  that 
on  our  conduct  in  this  life  will  depend  the 


424  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

happiness  of  the  life  to  come ;  yet  our  actions 
daily  give  the  lie  to  this  proposition,  inasmuch  as 
xve  commonly  act  like  men  who  have  no  thought 
but  for  the  present  scene,  and  to  whom  the  grave 
is  the  boundary  of  anticipation.  But  this  is  not 
the  only  paradox  which  humanity  furnishes  to  the 
eye  of  a  thinking  man.  It  is  very  generally  the 
case,  that  we  spend  our  whole  lives  in  the  pursuit 
of  objects,  which  common  experience  informs  us 
are  not  capable  of  conferring  that  pleasure  and 
satisfaction  which  we  expect  from  their  enjoyment. 
Our  views  are  uniformly  directed  to  one  point : — 
happiness  in  whatever  garb  it  be  clad,  and  under 
whatever  figure  shadowed,  is  the  great  aim  of 
the  busy  multitudes,  whom  we  behold  toiling 
through  the  vale  of  life,  in  such  an  infinite 
diversity  of  occupation,  and  disparity  of  views. 
But  the  misfortune  is,  that  we  seek  for  Happiness 
where  she  is  not  to  be  found,  and  the  cause  of 
wonder,  that  the  experience  of  ages  should  not 
have  guarded  us  against  so  fatal  and  so  universal 
an  error. 

It  would  be  an  amusing  speculation  to  consider 
the  various  points  after  which  our  fellow-mortals 
are  incessantly  straining,  and  in  the  possession  of 
which  they  have  placed  that  imaginary  chief  good 
which  we  are  all  doomed  to  covet,  but  which, 
perhaps,  none  of  us,  in  this  sublunary  state,  can 
attain.  At  present,  however,  we  are  led  to  con- 
siderations of  a  more  important  nature.  We  turn 
from  tbe  inconsistencies  observable  in  the  prose- 
cution of  our  subordinate  pursuits,  from  the 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  425 

partial  follies  of  individuals,  to  the  general  delusion 
which  seems  to  envelope  the  whole  human  race: — 
the  delusion  under  whose  influence  they  lose  sight 
of  the  chief  end  of  their  being,  and  cut  down  the 
sphere  of  their  hopes  and  enjoyments  to  a  few 
rolling  years,  and  that,  too,  in  a  scene  where  they 
know  there  is  neither  perfect  fruition  nor  perma- 
nent delight. 

The  faculty  of  contemplating  mankind  in  the 
abstract,  apart  from  those  prepossessions  which, 
both  by  nature  and  the  power  of  habitual 
associations,  would  intervene  to  cloud  our  view, 
is  only  to  be  obtained  by  a  life  of  virtue  and 
constant  meditation,  by  temperance,  and  purity  of 
thought.  Whenever  it  is  attained,  it  must  greatly 
tend  to  correct  our  motives — to  simplify  our 
desires — and  to  excite  a  spirit  of  contentment  and 
pious  resignation.  We  then,  at  length,  are  enabled 
to  contemplate  our  being,  in  all  its  bearings,  and 
in  its  full  extent,  and  the  result  is,  that  superiority 
to  common  views,  and  indifference  to  the  things 
of  this  life,  which  should  be  the  fruit  of  all  true 
philosophy,  and  which,  therefore,  are  the  more 
peculiar  fruits  of  that  system  of  philosophy  which 
is  called  the  Christian. 

To  a  mind  thus  sublimed,  the  great  mass  of 
mankind  will  appear  like  men  led  astray  by  the 
workings  of  wild  and  distempered  imaginations — 
visionaries  who  are  wandering  after  the  phantoms 
of  their  own  teeming  brains,  and  their  anxious 
solicitude  for  mere  matters  of  worldly  accommo- 
dation and  ease  will  seem  more  like  the  effects  of 
36  * 


426  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

insanity  than  of  prudent  foresight,  as  they  are 
esteemed.  To  the  awful  importance  of  futurity 
he  will  observe  them  utterly  insensible  ;  and  he 
will  see  with  astonishment  the  few  alloted  years 
of  human  life  wasted  in  providing  abundance  they 
will  never  enjoy,  while  the  eternity  they  are  placed 
here  to  prepare  for,  scarcely  employs  a  moment's 
consideration.  And  yet  the  mass  of  these  poor 
wanderers  in  the  ways  of  error,  have  the  light  of 
truth  shining  on  their  very  foreheads.  They  have 
the  revelation  of  Almighty  God  himself,  to  declare 
to  them  the  folly  of  wordly  cares,  and  the  necessity 
for  providing  for  a  future  state  of  existence.  They 
know  by  the  experience  of  every  preceding 
generation,  that  a  very  small  portion  of  joy  is 
allowed  to  the  poor  sojourners  in  this  vale  of  tears, 
and  that,  too,  embittered  with  much  pain  and  fear, 
and  yet  every  one  is  willing  to  flatter  himself  that 
he  shall  fare  better  than  his  predecessor  in  the  same 
path,  and  that  happiness  will  smile  on  him  which 
hath  frowned  on  all  his  progenitors. 

Still  it  would  be  wrong  to  deny  the  human  race 
all  claim  to  temporal  felicity.  There  may  be 
comparative,  although  very  little  positive  happi- 
ness ;— whoever  is  more  exempt  from  the  cares  of 
the  world  and  the  calamities  incident  to  humanity — 
whoever  enjoys  more  contentment  of  mind,  and  is 
more  resigned  to  the  dispensations  of  Divine 
Providence — in  a  word,  whoever  possesses  more 
of  the  true  spirit  of  Christianity  than  his  neigh- 
bors, is  comparatively  happy.  But  the  number 
of  these,  it  is  to  be  feared,  is  very  small.  Were 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  427 

all  men  equally  enlightened  by  the  illuminations 
of  truth,  as  emanating  from  the  spirit  of  Jehovah 
himself,  they  would  all  concur  in  the  pursuit  of 
virtuous  ends  by  virtuous  means — as  there  would 
be  no  vice,  there  would  be  very  little  infelicity. 
Every  pain  would  be  met  with  fortitude,  every 
affliction  with  resignation.  We  should  then  all 
look  back  to  the  past  with  complacency,  and  to 
the  future  with  hope.  Even  this  unstable  state  of 
being  would  have  many  exquisite  enjoyments — 
the  principal  of  which  would  be  the  anticipation 
of  that  approaching  state  of  beatitude  to  which 
we  might  then  look  with  confidence,  through  the 
medium  of  that  atonement  of  which  we  should  be 
partakers,  and  our  acceptance,  by  virtue  of  which, 
would  be  sealed  by  that  purity  of  mind  of  which 
human  nature  is,  of  itself,  incapable.  But  it  is 
from  the  mistakes  and  miscalculations  of  mankind, 
to  which  their  fallen  natures  are  continually  prone, 
that  arises  that  flood  of  misery  which  overwhelms 
the  whole  race,  and  resounds  wherever  the  foot- 
steps of  man  have  penetrated.  It  is  the  lamentable 
error  of  placing  happiness  in  vicious  indulgences, 
or  thinking  to  pursue  it  by  vicious  means.  It  is 
the  blind  folly  of  sacrificing  the  welfare  of  the 
future  to  the  opportunity  of  immediate  guilty 
gratification,  which  destroys  the  harmony  of 
society,  and  poisons  the  peace,  not  only  of  the 
immediate  procreators  of  the  errors — not  only  of 
the  identical  actors  of  the  vices  themselves,  but  of 
all  those  of  their  fellows  who  fall  within  the  reach 


428  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

of  their  influence  or  example,  or  who  are  in  any 
wise  connected  with  them  by  the  ties  of  blood. 

I  would  therefore  exhort  you  earnestly — you 
who  are  yet  unskilled  in  the  ways  of  the  world — 
to  beware  on  what  object  you  concentre  your 
hopes.  Pleasures  may  allure — pride  or  ambition 
may  stimulate,  but  their  fruits  are  hollow  and 
deceitful,  and  they  afford  no  sure,  no  solid  satis- 
faction. You  are  placed  on  the  earth  in  a  state  of 
probation — your  continuance  here  will  be,  at  the 
longest,  a  very  short  period,  and  when  you  are 
called  from  hence  you  plunge  into  an  eternity,  the 
completion  of  which  will  be  in  correspondence  to 
your  past  life,  unutterably  happy  or  inconceivably 
miserable.  Your  fate  will  probably  depend  on 
your  early  pursuits-— it  will  be  these  which 
will  give  the  turn  to  your  character  and  to  your 
pleasures.  I  beseech  you,  therefore,  with  a  meek 
and  lowly  spirit,  to  read  the  pages  of  that  Book, 
which  the  wisest  and  best  of  men  have 
acknowledged  to  be  the  word  of  God.  You  will 
there  find  a  rule  of  moral  conduct,  such  as  the 
world  never  had  any  idea  of  before  its  divul- 
gation. If  you  covet  earthly  happiness,  it  is  only 
to  be  found  in  the  path  you  will  find  there  laid 
down,  and  I  can  confidently  promise  you,  in  a  life 
of  simplicity  and  purity,  a  life  passed  in  accordance 
with  the  Divine  word,  such  substantial  bliss,  such 
unruffled  peace,  as  is  no  where  else  to  be  found. 
All  other  schemes  of  earthly  pleasure  are  fleeting 
and  unsatisfactory.  They  all  entail  upon  them 
repentance  and  bitterness  of  thought.  This  alone 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  429 

endureth  for  ever — this  alone  embraces  equally  the 
present  and  the  future — this  alone  can  arm  a  man 
against  every  calamity — can  alone  shed  the  balm 
of  peace  over  that  scene  of  life  when  pleasures 
have  lost  their  zest,  and  the  mind  can  no  longer 
look  forward  to  the  dark  and  mysterious  future. 
Above  all,  beware  of  the  ignus  fatuus  of  false 
philosophy  :  that  must  be  a  very  defective  system 
of  ethics  which  will  not  bear  a  man  through  the 
most  trying  stage  of  his  existence,  and  I  know  of 
none  that  will  do  it  but  the  Christian. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(No.  VIII.) 


MV  ctS'ix.ee  KTTtit  H  stxgaTxc  ct.yy.iy 
—  WU(  ft  y  t'.fn  T*.,«:p5T«gc>/  x.  tx.:t. 

ANAXANDRIDES  APUD  SUIDAM. 


MUCH  has  been  said  of  late  on  the  subject  of 
inscriptive  writing,  arid  that,  in  my  opinion,  to 
very  little  purpose.  Dr.  Drake,  when  treating  on 


430  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

this  topic,  is,  for  once,  inconclusive ;  but  his  essay 
does  credit  to  his  discernment,  however  little  it 
may  honour  him  as  a  promulgator  of  the  laws  of 
criticism  :  the  exquisite  specimens  it  contains  prove 
that  the  doctor  has  a  feeling  of  propriety  and 
general  excellence,  although  he  may  be  unhappy 
in  defining  them.  Boileau  says,  briefly,  "  Les 
inscriptions  doivent  etre  simples,  courle,  et 
familiarcs."  We  have,  however,  many  examples 
of  this  kind  of  writing  in  our  language,  which 
although  they  possess  none  of  these  qualities,  are 
esteemed  excellent.  Akeriside's  classic  imitations 
are  not  at  all  simple,  nothing  short,  and  the  very 
reverse  of  familiar,  yet  who  can  deny  that  they 
are  beautiful,  and  in  some  instances  appropriate  ? 
Southey's  inscriptions  are  noble  pieces; — for  the 
opposite  qualities  of  tenderness  and  dignity, 
sweetness  of  imagery  and  terseness  of  moral, 
unrivalled  ;  they  are  perhaps  wanting  in  propriety, 
and  (which  is  the  criterion)  produce  a  much  better 
effect  in  a  book,  than  they  would  on  a  column  or 
a  cenotaph.  There  is  a  certain  chaste  and  majestic 
gravity  expected  from  the  voice  of  tombs  and 
monuments,  which  probably  would  displease  in 
epitaphs  never  intended  to  be  engraved,  and 
inscriptions  for  obelisks  which  never  existed. 

When  a  man  visits  the  tomb  of  an  illustrious 
character,  a  spot  remarkable  for  some  memorable 
deed,  or  a  scene  connected  by  its  natural  sublimity 
with  the  higher  feelings  of  the  breast,  he  is  in  a 
mood  only  for  the  nervous,  the  concise,  and  the 
impressive ;  and  he  will  turn  with  disgust  alike 


MELANCHOLY     HOURS.  431 

from  the  puerile  conceits  of  the  epigrammatist,  and 
the  ledious  prolixity  of  the  herald.  It  is  a  nice 
thing  to  address  the  mind  in  the  workings  of 
generous  enthusiasm.  As  words  are  not  capable 
of  exciting  such  an  effervesence  of  the  sublimer 
affections,  so  they  can  do  little  towards  increasing 
it.  Their  office  is  rather  to  point  these  feelings  to 
a  beneficial  purpose,  and  by  some  noble  sentiment, 
or  exalted  moral,  to  impart  to  the  mind  that 
pleasure  which  results  from  warm  emotions  when 
connected  with  the  virtuous  and  the  generous. 

In  the  composition  of  inscriptive  pitcas,  great 
attention  must  be  paid  to  local  and  topical  propriety. 
The  occasion,  and  the  place,  must  not  only  regulate 
the  tenor,  but  even  the  style  of  an  inscription  :  for 
what,  in  one  case,  would  be  proper  and  agreeable, 
in  another  would  be  impertinent  and  disgusting. 
But  these  rules  may  always  be  taken  for  granted, 
that  an  inscription  should  be  unaD'ected  and  free 
from  conceits  ;  that  no  sentiment  should  be  intro- 
duced of  a  trite  or  hacknied  nature  ;  and  tnat  the 
design  and  the  moral  to  be  inculcated  should  be  of 
sufficient  importance  to  merit  the  reader's  attention, 
and  ensure  his  regard.  Who  would  think  of  set- 
ting a  stone  up  in  the  wilderness  to  tell  the  traveller 
what  he  knew  before,  or  what,  when  he  had 
learned  for  the  first  time,  was  not  worth  the 
knowing  ?  It  would  be  equally  absurd  to  call 
aside  his  attention  to  a  simile  or  an  epigrammatic 
point.  Wit  on  a  monument,  is  like  a  jest  from  a 
judge,  or  a  philosopher  cutting  capers.  It  is  a 
severe  mortification  to  meet  with  flippancy  where 


432 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 


we  looked  for  solemnity,  and  meretricious  elegance 
where  the  occasion  led  us  to  expect  the  unadorned 
majesty  of  truth. 

That  branch  of  inscriptive  writing  which 
commemorates  the  virtues  of  departed  worth,  or 
points  out  the  ashes  of  men  who  yet  live  in  the 
admiration  of  their  posterity,  is,  of  all  others,  the 
most  interesting,  and,  if  properly  managed,  the 
most  useful. 

It  is  not  enough  to  proclaim  to  the  observer  that 
he  is  drawing  near  to  the  reliques  of  the  deceased 
genius, — the  occasion  seems  to  provoke  a  few 
reflections.  If  these  be  natural,  they  will  be  in 
unison  with  the  feelings  of  the  reader,  and,  if  they 
tend  where  they  ought  to  tend,  they  will  leave  him 
better  than  they  found  him.  But  these  reflections 
must  not  be  too  much  prolonged.  They  must 
rather  be  hints  than  dissertations.  It  is  sufficient 
to  start  the  idea,  and  the  imagination  of  the  reader 
will  pursue  the  train  to  much  more  advantage  than 
the  writer  could  do  by  words. 

Panegyric  is  seldom  judicious  in  the  epitaphs 
on  public  characters,  for,  if  it  be  deserved,  it 
cannot  need  publication,  and  if  it  be  exaggerated, 
it  will  only  serve  to  excite  ridicule.  When 
employed  in  memorizing  the  retired  virtues  of 
domestic  life,  and  qualities  which,  though  they  only 
served  to  cheer  the  little  circle  of  privacy,  still 
deserved,  from  their  unfrequency,  to  triumph,  at 
least,  for  a  while,  over  the  power  of  the  grave,  it 
may  be  interesting  and  salutary  in  its  effects.  To 
this  purpose,  however,  it  is  rarely  employed.  An 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  433 

epitaph-book  will  seldom  supply  the  exigencies  of 
character ;  and  men  of  talents  are  not  always, 
even  in  these  favored  times,  a.t  hand  to  eternize 
the  virtues  of  private  life. 

The  following  epitaph,  by  Mr.  Hayley,  is 
inscribed  on  a  monument  to  the  memory  of  Co  wper, 
in  the  church  of  East  Dereham : 


"Ye  who  with  warmth  the  public  triumph  feel 
Of  talants  dignified  by  sacred  zeal, 
Here  to  Devotion's  bard  devoutly  just 
Pay  your  fond  tribute  due  to  Cowper's  dust! 
England,  exulting  in  his  spotless  fame, 
Ranks  with  her  dearest  sons  his  favorite  name  : 
Sense,  Fancy,  Wit,  conspire  not  all  to  raise 
So  clear  a  title  to  Affection's  praise  : 
His  highest  honors  to  the  heart  belong  ; 
His  virtues  formed  the  magic  of  his  song." 


"This  epitaph,"  says  a  periodical  critic,*  "is 
simply  elegant,  and  appropiately  just."  I  regard 
this  sentence  as  peculiarly  unfortunate,  for  the 
the  epitaph  seems  to  me  to  be  elegant  without 
simplicity,  and  just  without  propriety.  No  one 
will  deny  that  it  is  correctly  written,  and  that  it  is 
not  destitute  of  grace ;  but  in  what  consists  its 
simplicity  I  am  at  a  loss  to  imagine.  The  initial 
address  is  labored  and  circumlocutory.  There 
is  something  artificial  rather  than  otherwise  in 

*  The  monthly  Reviewer 
37 


434  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

the  personification  of  England,  and  her  ranging 
the  poet's  name  «  with  her  dearest  sons,"  instead 
of  with  those  of  her  dearest  sons,  is  like  ranking 
poor  John  Doe  with  a  proper  bona  fide  son  of 
Adam,  in  a  writ  of  arrest.    Sense,  Fancy,  and  Wit, 
"raising  a  title,"  and  that  to  "  Affection's  praise," 
is  not  very  simple,  and  not  over  intelligible.  Again, 
the  epitaph  is  just  because  it  is  strictly  true  ;  but 
it  is  by  no  means,  therefore,  appropriate.     Who 
that  would  turn  aside  to  visit  the  ashes  of  Cowper, 
would  need  to  be  told  that  England  ranks  him 
with  her  favorite  sons,  and  that  sense,  fancy,  and 
wit  were  not  his  greatest  honors,  for  that  his  virtues 
formed  the  magic  of  his  song ;  or  who,  hearing 
this,  would  be  the  better   for  the   information? 
Had  Mr.  Hayley  been  employed  in  the  monu- 
mental praises  of  a  private  man,  this  might  have 
been  excusable,  but  speaking  of  such  a  man  as 
Cowper,  it  is  idle.     This  epitaph  is  not  appropri- 
ate, therefore,  and  we  have  shown  that  it  is  not 
remarkable   for  simplicity.     Perhaps  the  respec- 
table critics  themselves  may  not  feel  inclined  to 
dispute  this  point  very  tenaciously.     Epithets  are 
very  convenient  little  things  for  rounding  off  a 
period ;  and  it  will  not  be  the  first  time  that  truth 
has  been  sacrificed  to  verbosity,  and  antihesis. 

To  measure  lances  with  Haley  may  be  esteemed 
presumptous;  but  probably  the  following,  although 
much  inferior  as  a  composition,  would  have  had 
more  effect  than  his  polished  and  harmonious 
lines. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  435 

INSCRIPTION    FOR  A   MONUMENT. 

TO    THE 
MEMORY     OF    COWPER. 

READER  !  if  with  no  vulgar  sympathy 

Thou  view'st  the  wreck  of  genius  and  of  worth, 

Stay  thou  thy  footsteps  near  this  hallo w'd  spot. 

Here  Cowper  rests.     Although  renown  have  made 

His  name  familliar  to  thine  ear,  this  stone 

May  tell  thee  that  his  virtues  were  above 

The  common  portion : — that  the  voice,  now  hush'd 

In  death,  was  once  serenely  querulous 

With  pity's  tones,  and  in  the  ear  of  wo 

Spake  music.     Now  forgetful  at  thy  feet 

His  tired  head  presses  on  its  last  long  rest, 

Still  tenant  of  the  tomb ; — and  on  the  cheek, 

Once  warm  with  animation's  lambent  flush, 

Sits  the  pale  image  of  unmark'd  decay. 

Yet  mourn  not.     He  had  chosen  the  better  part : 

And  these  sad  garments  of  mortality 

Put  off,  we  trust,  that  to  a  happier  land 

He  went  a  light  and  gladsome  passenger. 

Sigh'st  thou  for  honors,  reader  1     Call  to  mind 

That  glory's  voice  is  impotent  to  pierce 

The  silence  of  the  tomb-!  but  virtue  blooms 

Even  on  the  wreck  of  life,  and  mounts  the  skies! 

So  gird  thy  loins  with  lowliness,  and  walk 

With  Cowper  on  the  pilgrimage  of  Christ. 

This  inscription  is  faulty  from  its  length,  but  if 
a  painter  cannot  get  the  requisite  effect  at  one 
stroke,  he  must  do  it  by  many.  The  laconic  style 


436  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

of  epitaphs  is  the  most  difficult  to  be  managed  of 
any,  inasmuch  as  most  is  expected  from  it.  A  sen- 
tence standing  alone  on  a  tomb,  or  a  monument, 
is  expected  to  contain  something  particularly  stri- 
king :  and  when  this  expectation  is  disappointed, 
the  reader  feels  like  a  man  who,  having  been 
promised  an  excellent  joke,  is  treated  with  a  stale 
conceit,  or  a  vapid  pun.  The  best  specimen  of 
this  kind,  which  I  am  acquainted  with,  is  that  on 
a  French  general : 

"  Siste,  Viator  ;  Heroem  calcas  !" 
Stop,  traveller  ;  thou  treadest  on  a  hero  ! 

W. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 

(No.  IX.) 


Scires  e  sanguine  natos. 

Ovid. 


IT  is  common  for  busy  and  active  men  to  behold 
the  occupations  of  the  retired  and  contemplative 
person  with  contempt.  They  consider  his  specu- 
lations as  idle  and  unproductive;  as  they  par- 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  437 

ticipate  m  none  of  his  feelings,  they  are  strangers 
to  his  motives,  his  views,  and  his  delights ;  they 
behold  him  elaborately  employed  on  what  they 
conceive  forwards  none  of  the  interests  of  life, 
contributes  to  none  of  its  gratifications,  removes 
none  of  its  inconveniences  :  they  conclude,  there- 
fore, that  he  is  led  away  by  the  delusions  of  futile 
philosophy,  that  he  labors  for  no  good,  and  lives 
to  no  end.  Of  the  various  frames  of  mind  which 
they  observe  in  him,  no  one  seems  to  predominate 
more,  and  none  appears  to  them  more  absurd,  than 
sadness,  which  seems,  in  some  degree,  to  pervade 
all  his  views,  and  shed  a  solemn  tinge  over  all  his 
thoughts.  Sadness,  arising  from  no  personal  grief, 
and  connected  with  no  individual  concern,  they 
regard  as  moonstruck  melancholy,  the  effect  of  a 
mind  overcast  with  constitutional  gloom,  and 
diseased  with  habits  of  vain  and  fanciful  specu- 
lation.— "  We  can  share  with  the  sorrows  of  the 
unfortunate,"  say  they,  "but  this  monastic  spleen 
merits  only  our  derision  :  it  tends  to  no  beneficial 
purpose,  it  benefits  neither  its  possessor  nor  society." 
Those  who  have  thought  a  little  more  on  this 
subject  than  the  gay  and  busy  crowd,  will  draw- 
conclusions  of  a  different  nature.  That  there  is  a 
sadness,  springing  from  the  noblest  and  purest 
sources,  a  sadness  friendly  to  the  human  heart, 
and,  by  direct  consequence,  to  human  nature  in 
general,  is  a  truth  which  a  little  illustration  will 
render  tolerably  clear,  and  which,  when  understood 
in  its  full  force,  may  probably  convert  contempt 
and  ridicule  into  respect. 
37  * 


438  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

I  set  out,  then,  with  the  proposition,  that  the 
man  who  thinks  deeply,  especially  if  his  reading 
be  extensive,  will,  unless  his  heart  be  very  cold 
and  very  light,  become  habituated  to  a  pensive, 
or,  with  more  propriety,  a  mournful  cast  of 
thought.  This  will  arise  from  two  more  particular 
sources — from  the  view  of  human  nature  in 
general,  as  demonstrated  by  the  experience  both 
of  past  and  present  times,  and  from  the  contem- 
plation of  individual  instances  of  human  depravity 
and  of  human  suffering.  The  first  of  these  is, 
indeed,  the  last  in  the  order  of  time,  for  his  general 
views  of  humanity  are  in  a  manner  consequential, 
or  resulting  from  the  special ;  but  I  have  inverted 
that  order  for  the  sake  of  perspicuity. 

Of  those  who  have  occasionally  thought  on 
these  subjects,  I  may,  with  perfect  assurance  of 
their  reply, inquire  what  have  been  their  sensations 
when  they  have,  for  a  moment,  attained  a  more 
enlarged  and  capacious  notion  of  the  state  of  man 
in  all  its  bearings  and  dependencies.  They  have 
found,  and  the  profoundest  philosophers  have  done 
no  more,  that  they  are  enveloped  in  mystery,  and 
that  the  mystery  of  man's  situation  is  not  without 
alarming  and  fearful  circumstances.  They  have 
discovered  that  all  they  know  of  themselves  is 
that  they  live,  but  that  from  whence  they  came,  or 
whither  they  are  going,  is  by  Nature  altogether 
hidden  ;  that  impenetrable  gloom  surrounds  them 
on  every  side,  and  that  they  even  hold  their 
morrow  on  the  credit  of  to-day,  when  it  is,  in  fact, 
buried  in  the  vague  and  indistinct  gulf  of  the  ages 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  439 

to  come  ! — These  are  reflections  deeply  interesting, 
and  lead  to  others  so  awful,  that  many  gladly  shut 
their  eyes  on  the  giddy  and  unfathomable  depths 
which  seem  to  stretch  before  them.  The  medita- 
tive man,  however,  endeavors  to  pursue  them  to 
the  farthest  stretch  of  the  reasoning  powers,  and 
to  enlarge  his  conceptions  of  the  mysteries  of  his 
own  existence  ;  and  the  more  he  learns,  and  the 
deeper  he  penetrates,  the  more  cause  does  he  find 
for  being  serious,  and  the  more  inducements  to  be 
continually  thoughtful. 

If,  again,  we  turn  from  the  condition  of  mortal 
existence,  considered  in  the  abstract,  to  the  qualities 
and  characters  of  man,  and  his  condition  in  a  state 
of  society,  we  see  things  perhaps  equally  strange 
and  infinitely  more  affecting. — In  the  economy  of 
creation,  we  perceive  nothing  inconsistent  with 
the  power  of  an  all-wise  and  all-merciful  God.  A 
perfect  harmony  runs  through  all  the  parts  of  the 
universe.  Plato's  syrens  sing  not  only  from  the 
planetary  octave,  but  through  all  the  minutest 
divisions  of  the  stupendous  whole  ;  order,  beauty, 
and  perfection,  the  traces  of  the  great  Architect, 
glow  through  every  particle  of  his  work.  At 
man,  however,  we  stop :  there  is  one  exception. 
The  harmony  of  order  ceases,  arid  vice  and 
misery  disturb  the  beautiful  consistency  of  crea- 
tion, and  bring  us  first  acquainted  with  positive 
evil.  We  behold  men  carried  irresistibly  away 
by  corrupt  principles  and  vicious  inclinations, 
indulging  in  propensities,  destructive  as  well  to 
themselves  as  to  those  around  them ;  the  stronger 


440  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

oppressing  the  weaker,  and  the  bad  persecuting 
the  good  !  we  see  the  depraved  in  prosperity,  the 
virtuous  in  adversity,  the  guilty  unpunished,  the 
deserving  overwhelmed  with  unprovoked  misfor- 
tunes. From  hence  we  are  tempted  to  think,  that 
He,  whose  arm  holds  the  planets  in  their  course, 
and  directs  the  comets  along  their  eccentric  orbits, 
ceases  to  exercise  his  providence  over  the  affairs 
of  mankind,  and  leaves  them  to  be  governed  and 
directed  by  the  impulses  of  a  corrupt  heart,  or  the 
blind  workings  of  chance  alone.  Yet  this  is  incon- 
sistent both  with  the  wisdom  and  the  goodness  of 
the  Deity.  If  God  permit  evil,  he  causes  it :  the 
difference  is  casuistical.  We  are  led,  therefore, 
to  conclude,  that  it  was  not  always  thus :  that 
man  was  created  in  a  far  different  and  far  happier 
condition ;  but  that,  by  some  means  or  other,  he 
has  forfeited  the  protection  of  his  Maker.  Here 
then  is  a  mystery.  The  ancients,  led  by  reasonings 
alone,  perceived  it  with  amazement,  but  did  not 
solve  the  problem.  They  attempted  some  expla- 
nation of  it  by  the  lame  fiction  of  a  golden  age 
and  its  cession,  where,  by  a  circular  mode  of 
reasoning,  they  attribute  the  introduction  of  vice 
to  their  gods  having  deserted  the  earth,  and  the 
desertion  of  the  gods  to  the  introduction  of  vice.* 
This,  however,  was  the  logic  of  the  poets ;  the 
philosophers  disregarded  the  fable,  but  did  not 
dispute  the  fact  it  was  intended  to  account  for.  They 

*  Hesiod.  Opera  et  Dies.   Lib.  1.  195. — Ovid.   Metamor. 
L.  1.  Fab.  4— Juvenal.  Sat  vi.  1.  10. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  441 

often  hint  at  human  degeneracy,  and  some  unknown 
curse  hanging  over  our  being,  and  even  coming 
into  the  world  along  with  us.  Pliny,  in  the  preface 
to  his  seventh  book,  has  this  remarkable  passage  : 
"  The  animal  about  to  rule  over  the  rest  of  created 
animals  lies  weeping,  bound  hand  and  foot,  making 
his  first  entrance  upon  life  with  sharp  pangs,  arid 
and  this,  for  no  other  crime  than  that  he  is  born 
man." — Cicero,  in  a  passage,  for  the  preservation 
of  which  we  are  indebted  to  St.  Augustine,  gives 
a  yet  stronger  idea  of  an  existing  degeneracy  in 
human  nature: — "Man,"  says  he,  "comes  into 
existence,  not  as  from  the  hands  of  a  mother,  but 
of  a  step-dame  nature,  with  a  body  feeble,  naked, 
and  fragile,  and  a  mind  exposed  to  anxiety  and 
care,  abject  in  fear,  unmeet  for  labor,  prone  to 
licentiousness,  in  which,  however,  there  still  dwell 
some  sparks  of  the  divine  mind,  though  obscured, 
and,  as  it  were,  in  ruins."  And,  in  another  place, 
he  intimates  it  as  a  current  opinion,  that  man 
comes  into  the  world  as  into  a  state  of  punish- 
ment expiatory  of  crimes  committed  in  some 
previous  stage  of  existence,  of  which  we  now 
retain  no  recollection. 

From  these  proofs,  and  from  daily  observation 
and  experience,  there  is  every  ground  for  conclu- 
ding that  man  is  in  a  state  of  misery  and  depravity 
quite  inconsistent  with  the  happiness  for  which, 
by  a  benevolent  God,  he  must  have  been  created. 
We  see  glaring  marks  of  this  in  our  own  times. 
Prejudice  alone  blinds  us  to  the  absurdity  and  the 
horror  of  those  systematic  murders  which  go  by 


442  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

the  name  of  wars,  where  man  falls  on  man,  brother 
slaughters  brother,  where  death,  in  every  variety 
of  horror,  preys  "on  the  finely-fibred  human 
frame"  and  where  the  cry  of  the  widow  and  the 
orphan  rise  up  to  heaven  long  after  the  thunder 
of  the  fight  and  the  clang  of  arms  have  ceased, 
and  the  bones  of  sons,  brothers,  and  husbands 
slain  are  grown  white  on  the  field.  Customs  like 
these  vouch,  with  most  miraculous  organs,  for  the 
depravity  of  the  human  heart,  and  these  are  not 
the  most  mournful  of  those  considerations  which 
present  themselves  to  the  mind  of  the  thinking 
man. 

Private  life  is  equally  fertile  in  calamitous  per- 
version of  reason,  and  extreme  accumulation  of 
misery.  On  the  one  hand,  we  see  a  large  propor- 
tion of  men  sedulously  employed  in  the  eduction 
of  their  own  ruin,  pursuing  vice  in  all  its  varieties, 
and  sacrificing  the  peace  and  happiness  of  the 
innocent  and  unoffending  to  their  own  brutal 
gratifications ;  and,  on  the  other,  pain,  misfortune, 
and  misery,  overwhelming  alike  the  good  and  the 
bad,  the  provident  and  the  improvident.  But  too 
general  a  view  would  distract  our  attention  :  let 
the  reader  pardon  me  if  I  suddenly  draw  him 
away  from  the  survey  of  the  crowds  of  life  to  a 
few  detached  scenes.  We  will  select  a  single 
picture  at  random.  The  character  is  common. 

Behold  that  beautiful  female,  who  is  rallying  a 
well-dressed  young  man  with  so  much  gayety  and 
humor.  Did  you  ever  see  so  lovely  a  countenance  ? 
There  is  an  expression  of  vivacity  in  her  fine  dark 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  443 

eye  which  quite  captivates  one  ;  and  her  smile, 
were  it  a  little  less  bold,  would  be  bewitching. 
How  gay  and  careless  she  seems!  .One  would 
suppose  she  had  a  very  light  and  happy  heart. 
Alas  !  how  appearances  deceive !  This  gaiety  is 
all  feigned.  It  is  her  business  to  please,  and 
beneath  a  fair  and  painted  outside  she  conceals 
an  unquiet  and  forlorn  breast.  When  she  was 
yet  very  young,  an  engaging  but  dissolute  young 
man  took  advantage  of  her  simplicity,  and  of  the 
affection  with  which  he  had  inspired  her,  to  betray 
her  virtue.  At  first  her  infamy  cost  her  many 
tears ;  but  habit  wore  away  this  remorse,  leaving 
only  a  kind  of  indistinct  regret,  and,  as  she  fondly 
loved  her  betrayer,  she  experienced,  at  times,  a 
mingled  pleasure  even  in  this  abandoned  situation. 
But  this  was  soon  over.  Her  lover,  on  pretence 
of  a  journey  into  the  country,  left  her  for  ever. 
She  soon  afterwards  heard  of  his  marriage,  with 
an  agony  of  grief  which  few  can  adequately 
conceive,  and" none  describe.  The  calls  of  want, 
however,  soon  subdued  the  more  distracting  ebul- 
litions of  anguish.  She  had  no  choice  left ;  all 
the  gates  of  virtue  were  shut  upon  her,  and  though 
she  really  abhorred  the  course,  she  was  obliged 
to  betake  herself  to  vice  for  support.  Her  next 
keeper  possessed  her  person  without  her  heart. 
She  has  since  passed  through  several  hands,  and 
has  found,  by  bitter  experience,  that  the  vicious, 
on  whose  generosity  she  is  thrown,  are  devoid  of 
all  feeling  but  that  of  self-gratification,  and  that 
even  the  wages  of  prostitution  are  reluctantly  and 


444  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

grudgingly  paid.  She  now  looks  on  all  men  as 
sharpers.  She  smiles  but  to  entangle  and  destroy, 
and  while  she  simulates  fondness,  is  intent  only 
on  the  extorting  of  that,  at  best  poor  pittance, 
which  her  necessities  loudly  demand.  Thought- 
less as  she  may  seem,  she  is  not  without  an  idea 
of  her  forlorn  and  wretched  situation,  and  she 
looks  only  to  sudden  death  as  her  refuge,  against 
that  time  when  her  charms  shall  cease  to  allure  the 
eye  of  incontinece,  when  even  the  lowest  haunts 
of  infamy  shall  be  shut  against  her,  and  without 
a  friend  or  a  hope,  she  must  sink  under  the  pres- 
sure of  want  and  disease. 

But  we  will  now  shift  this  scene  a  little,  and 
select  another  object.  Behold  yon  poor  weary 
wretch,  who,  with  a  child  wrapt  in  her  arms,  with 
difficulty  drags  along  the  road.  The  man,  with 
a  knapsack,  who  is  walking  before  her,  is  her 
husband,  and  is  marching  to  join  his  regiment. 
He  has  been  spending,  at  a  dram-shop  in  the 
town  they  have  just  left,  the  supply  which 
the  pale  and  weak  appearance  of  his  wife  pro- 
claims was  necessary  for  her  sustenance.  He  is 
now  half  drunk,  and  is  venting  the  artificial  spirits 
which  intoxication  excites  in  the  abuse  of  his 
weary  help-mate  behind  him.  She  seems  to  listen 
to  his  reproaches  in  patient  silence.  Her  face  will 
tell  you  more  than  many  words,  as,  with  a  wan 
and  meaning  look,  she  surveys  the  little  wretch 
who  is  asleep  on  her  arms.  The  turbulent  brutality 
of  the  man  excites  no  attention  :  she  is  pondering 


MELANCHOLY   HOURS.  445 

on  the  future  chance  of  life,  and  the  probable  lot 
of  her  heedless  little  one. 

One  other  picture,  and  I  have  done.  The 
man  pacing  with  a  slow  step  and  languid  aspect 
over  yon  prison  court,  was  once  a  fine  dashing 
fellow,  the  admiration  of  the  ladies,  and  the  envy 
of  the  men.  He  is  the  only  representative  of  a 
once  respectable  family,  and  is  brought  to  this 
situation  by  unlimited  indulgence  at  that  time 
when  the  check  is  most  necessary.  He  began  to 
figure  in  genteel  life  at  an  early  age.  His  mis- 
judging mother,  to  whose  sole  care  he  was  left, 
thinking  no  alliance  too  good  for  her  darling, 
cheerfully  supplied  his  extravagance,  under  the 
idea  that  it  would  not  last  long,  and  that  it  would 
enable  him  to  shine  in  those  circles  where  she 
wished  him  to  rise.  But  he  soon  found  that  habits 
of  prodigality,  once  well  gained,  are  never  eradi- 
cated. His  fortune,  though  genteel,  was  not 
adequate  to  such  habits  of  expense.  His  unhappy 
parent  lived  to  see  him  make  a  degrading  alliance, 
and  come  in  danger  of  a  jail,  and  then  died  of  a 
broken  heart.  His  affairs  soon  wound  themselves 
up.  His  debts  were  enormous,  and  he  had  nothing 
to  pay  them  with.  He  has  now  been  in  that  prison 
many  years,  and  since  he  is  excluded  from  the 
benefit  of  an  insolvency  act,  he  has  made  up  his 
mind  to  the  idea  of  ending  his  days  there.  His  wife, 
whose  beauty  had  decoyed  him,  since  she  found  he 
could  not  support  her,  deserted  him  for  those  who 
could,  leaving  him  without  friend  or  companion,  to 
pace,  w  ith  measured  steps,  over  the  court  of  a  country 
38 


446  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

jail,  and  endeavor  to  beguile  the  lassitude  of  impris- 
onment, by  thinking  on  the  days  that  are  gone,  or 
counting  the  squares  in  his  grated  window  in 
every  possible  direction,  backwards,  forwards,  and 
across,  till  he  sighs  to  find  the  sum  always  the 
same,  and  that  the  more  anxiously  we  strive  to 
beguile  the  moments  in  their  course,  the  more 
sluggishly  they  travel. 

If  these  are  accurate  pictures  of  some  of  the 
varieties  of  human  suffering,  and  if  such  pictures 
are  common  even  to  triteness,  what  conclusions 
must  we  draw  as  to  the  condition  of  man  in 
general,  and  what  must  be  the  prevailing  frame 
of  mind  of  him  who  meditates  much  on  these 
subjects,  and  who,  unbracing  the  whole  tissue  of 
causes  and  effects,  sees  Misery  invariably  the 
offspring  of  Vice,  and  Vice  existing  in  hostility  to 
the  intentions  and  wishes  of  God  ?  Let  the  medi- 
tative man  turn  where  he  will,  he  finds  traces  of 
the  depraved  state  of  Nature,  and  her  consequent 
misery.  History  presents  him  with  little  but 
murder,  treachery,  and  crimes  of  every  descrip- 
tion. Biography  only  strengthens  the  view,  by  con- 
centrating it.  The  philosophers  remind  him  of  the 
existence  of  evil,  by  their  lessons  how  to  avoid  or 
endure  it ;  and  the  very  poets  themselves  afford 
him  pleasure,  not  unconnected  with  regret,  as, 
either  by  contrast,  exemplification,  or  deduction, 
they  bring  the  world  and  its  circumstances  before 
his  eyes. 

That  such  a  one,  then,  is  prone  to  sadness,  who 
will  wonder  ?  If  such  meditations  are  beneficial, 


MELANCHOLY   HOURS.  447 

who  will  blame  them?  The  discovery  of  evil 
naturally  leads  us  to  contribute  our  mite  towards 
the  alleviation  of  the  wretchedness  it  introduces. 
While  we  lament  vice,  we  learn  to  shun  it  our- 
selves and  to  endeavor,  if  possible,  to  arrest  its 
progress  in  those  around  us ;  and  in  the  course  of 
these  high  and  lofty  speculations,  we  are  insensi- 
bly led  to  think  humbly  of  ourselves,  and  to  lift 
up  our  thoughts  to  Him  who  is  alone  the  fountain 
of  all  perfection  and  the  source  of  all  good. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

(No.  X.) 


La  rime  est  une  esclave,  et  ne  doit  qu'obeir. 

Boileau  I!  Art  Poetique. 


EXPERIMENTS  in  versification  have  not  often 
been  successful.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  with  all  his 
genius,  great  as  it  undoubtedly  was,  could  not 
impart  grace  to  his  hexameters,  or  fluency  to  his 


448  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

sapphics.  Spencer's  stanza  was  new,  but  his 
verse  was  familiar  to  the  ear;  and  though  his 
rhymes  were  frequent  even  to  satiety,  he  seems 
to  have  avoided  the  awkwardness  of  novelty,  and 
the  difficulty  of  unpractised  metres.  Donne  had 
not  music  enough  to  render  his  broken  rhyming 
couplets  sufferable,  and  neither  his  wit  nor  his 
pointed  satire  were  sufficient  to  rescue  him  from 
that  neglect  which  his  uncouth  and  rugged  versi- 
fication speedily  superinduced. 

In  our  time,  Mr.  Southey  has  given  grace  and 
melody  to  some  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  measures, 
and  Mr.  Bowles  has  written  rhyming  heroics, 
wherein  the  sense  is  transmitted  from  couplet  to 
couplet,  and  the  pauses  are  varied  with  all  the 
freedom  of  blank  verse,  without  exciting  any  sen- 
sation of  ruggedness,  or  offending  the  nicest  ear. 
But  these  are  minor  efforts :  the  former  of  these 
exquisite  poets  has  taken  a  yet  wider  range,  and 
in  his  "  Thalaba  the  Destroyer,"  has  spurned  at 
all  the  received  laws  of  metre,  and  framed  a  fabric 
of  verse  altogether  his  own. 

An  innovation,  so  bold  as  that  of  Mr.  Southey, 
was  sure  to  meet  with  disapprobation  and  ridicule. 
The  world  naturally  looks  with  suspicion  on  sys- 
tems which  contradict  established  principles,  and 
refuse  to  quadrate  with  habits  which,  as  they 
have  been  used  to,  men  are  apt  to  think  cannot 
be  improved  upon.  The  opposition  which  has 
been  made  to  the  metre  of  Thalaba,  is,  therefore, 
not  so  much  to  be  imputed  to  its  want  of  harmony, 
as  to  the  operation  of  existing  prejudices ;  and  it 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  449 

is  fair  to  conclude,  that,  as  these  prejudices  are 
softened  by  usage,  and  the  strangeness  of  novelty 
wears  off,  the  peculiar  features  of  this  lyrical  frame 
of  verse  will  be  more  candidly  appreciated,  and 
'its  merits  more  unreservedly  acknowleged. 

Whoever  is  conversant  with  the  writings  of  this 
author,  will  have  observed  and  admired  that 
greatness  of  mind,  and  comprehension  of  intellect, 
by  which  he  is  enabled,  on  all  occasions  to  throw 
off  the  shackles  of  habit  and  prepossession. 
Southey  never  treads  in  the  beaten  track:  his 
thoughts,  while  they  are  those  of  nature,  carry 
that  cast  of  originality  which  is  the  stamp  and 
testimony  of  genius.  He  views  things  through  a 
peculiar  phasis,  and  while  he  has  the  feelings  of  a 
man,  they  are  those  of  a  man  almost  abstracted 
from  mortality,  and  reflecting  on,  and  painting  the 
scenes  of  life,  as  if  he  were  a  mere  spectator 
uninfluenced  by  his  own  connection  with  the  ob- 
jects he  surveys.  To  this  faculty  of  bold  dis- 
crimination I  attribute  many  of  Mr.  Southey's 
peculiarities  as  a  poet.  He  never  seems  to  inquire 
how  other  men  would  treat  a  subject,  or  what 
may  happen  to  be  the  usage  of  the  times ;  but 
filled  with  that  strong  sense  of  fitness  which  is  the 
result  of  bold  and  unshackled  thought,  he  fear- 
lessly pursues  that  course  which  his  own  sense  of 
propriety  points  out. 

It  is  very  evident  to  me,  and  I  should  conceive 
to  all  who  consider  the  subject  attentively,  that  the 
structure  of  the  verse,  which  Mr.  Southey  has 
promulgated  in  his  Thalaba,  was  neither  adopted 


450  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

rashly,  nor  from  any  vain  emulation  of  originality. 
As  the  poet  himself  happily  observes,  "It  is  the 
arabesque  ornament  of  an  Arabian  tale."  No 
one  would  wish  to  see  the  Joan  of  Arc  in  such  a 
a  garb  ;  but  the  wild  freedom  of  the  versification 
of  Thalaba  accords  well  with  the  romantic  wild- 
ness  of  the  story ;  and  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say, 
that,  had  any  other  known  measure  been  adopted, 
the  poem  would  have  been  deprived  of  half  its 
beauty,  and  all  its  propriety.  In  blank  verse 
it  would  have  been  absurd;  in  rhyme,  insipid. 
The  lyrical  manner  is  admirably  adapted  to 
the  sudden  transitions  and  rapid  connections  of 
an  Arabian  tale,  while  its  variety  precludes 
taedium,  and  its  full,  because  unschackled,  cadence 
satisfies  the  ear  with  legitimate  harmony.  At 
first,  indeed,  the  verse  may  appear  uncouth, 
because  it  is  new  to  the  ear ;  but  I  defy  any  man 
who  has  any  feeling  of  melody,  to  peruse  the 
whole  poem,  without  paying  tribute  to  the  sweet- 
ness of  its  flow,  and  the  gracefulness  of  its  modu- 
lations. 

In  judging  of  this  extraordinary  poem,  we 
should  consider  it  as  a  genuine  lyric  production, — 
we  should  conceive  it  as  recited  to  the  harp,  in  times 
when  such  relations  carried  nothing  incredible  with 
them.  Carrying  this  idea  along  with  us,  the 
admirable  art  of  the  poet  will  strike  us  with  ten- 
fold conviction;  the  abrupt  sublimity  of  his 
transitions,  the  sublime  simplicity  of  his  manner 
and  the  delicate  touches  by  which  he  connects  the 
various  parts  of  his  narrative,  will  then  be  more 


MELANCHOLY   HOURS.  451 

strongly  observable,  and  we  shall,  in  particular, 
remark  the  uncommon  felicity  with  which  he  has 
adapted  his  versification  ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  the 
wildest  irregularity,  left  nothing  to  shock  the  ear, 
or  offend  the  judgment. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 

(No.  XI.) 
THE  PROGRESS  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 

FEW  histories  would  be  more  worthy  of  atten- 
tion than  that  of  the  progress  of  knowledge,  from 
its  first  dawn  to  the  time  of  its  meridian  splendor, 
among  the  ancient  Greeks.  Unfortunately,  how- 
ever, the  precautions  which,  in  this  early  period, 
were  almost  generally  taken  to  confine  all  know- 
ledge to  a  particular  branch  of  men,  and  when 
the  Greeks  began  to  contend  for  the  palm  among 
the  learned  nations,  their  backwardness  to  ac- 
knowledge the  sources  form  whence  they  derived 
the  first  principles  of  their  philosophy,  have  served 
to  wrap  this  interesting  subject  in  almost  impene- 
trable obscurity.  Few  vestiges,  except  the 
Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  now  remain  of  the  learn- 
ing of  the  more  ancient  world.  Of  the  two 
millions  of  verses  said  to  have  been  written  by 


452- 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 


the  Chaldean  Zoroaster,*  we  have  no  relics ;  and 
the  oracles  which  go  under  his  name  are  pretty 
generally  acknowledged  to  be  spurious. 

The  Greeks  unquestionably  derived  their  phi- 
losophy from  the  Egyptians  and  Chaldeans.  Both 
Pythagoras  and  Plato  had  visited  those  countries 
for  the  advantage  of  learning ;  and  if  we  may 
credit  the  received  accounts  of  the  former  of  these 
illustrious  sages,  he  was  regularly  initiated  in  the 
schools  of  Egypt,  during  the  period  of  twenty- 
two  years  that  he  resided  in  that  country,  and 
became  the  envy  and  admiration  of  the  Egyptians 
themselves.  Of  the  Pythagorean  doctrines  we 
have  some  accounts  remaining ;  and  nothing  is 
wanting  to  render  the  systems  of  Platonism 
complete  and  intelligible.  In  the  dogmas  of  these 
philosophers,  therefore,  we  may  be  able  to  trace 
the  learning  of  these  primitive  nations,  though 
our  conclusions  must  be  cautiously  drawn,  and 
much  must  be  allowed  to  the  active  intelligence 
of  two  Greeks.  Ovid's  short  summary  of  the 
philosophy  of  Pythagoras  deserves  attention. 

-Isque,  licet  cosli  regione  remotos, 


Mente  Deos  adiit :  et,  qua?  natura  negabat 
Visibus  humanis,  oculis  ea  pectoris  liausit. 
Cumque  animo,  et  vigili  perspexerat  omnia  cura; 
In  medium  discenda  dabat:  coetumque  silentuw, 
Dictaque  mirantum,  magni  primordia  mundi 
Et  rerum  causas  et  quid  natura  docebat, 
Quid  Deus:  unde  nives  :  quse  fulminis  essetorigo 
Jupiter,  an  venti,  discussa  nube,  tonarent, 
Quid  quateret  terras :  qua  sidera  lege  mearent, 
Et  quodcumque  latet. 

*  Pliny. 


MELANCHOLY     HOURS.  453 

If  we  are  to  credit  this  account,  and  it  is 
corroborated  by  many  other  testimonies,  Pythag- 
oras searched  deeply  into  natural  causes.  Some 
have  imagined,  and  strongly  asserted,  that  his 
central  fire  was  figurative  of  the  sun,  and,  there- 
fore, that  he  had  an  idea  of  its  real  situation  ;  but 
this  opinion,  so  generally  adopted,  may  be  combated 
with  some  degree  of  reason.  I  should  be  inclined 
to  think  Pythagoras  gained  his  idea  of  the  great 
central,  vivifying,  and  creative  fire  from  the 
Chaldeans,  and  that,  therefore,  it  was  the  repre- 
sentative not  of  the  sun  but  of  the  Deity.  Zoroaster 
taught  that  there  was  one  God,  Eternal,  the  Father 
of  the  Universe  :  he  assimilated  the  Deity  to  light, 
and  applied  to  him  the  names  of  Light,  Beams, 
and  Splendor.  The  Magi,  corrupting  his  repre- 
sentation of  the  Supreme  Being,  and,  taking 
literally  what  was  meant  as  an  allegory  or  symbol, 
supposed  that  God  was  this  central  fire,  the  source 
of  heat,  light,  and  life,  residing  in  the  centre  of 
the  universe ;  and  from  hence  they  introduced 
among  the  Chaldeans  the  worship  of  fire.  That 
Pythagoras  was  tainted  with  this  superstition  is 
well  known.  On  the  testimony  of  Plutarch,  his 
disciples  held,  that  in  the  rnidst  of  the  world  is 
fire,  or  in  the  midst  of  the  four  elements  is  the 
fiery  globe  of  Unity,  or  Monad — the  procreative, 
nutritive,  and  excitive  power.  The  sacred  fire  of 
Vesta,  among  the  Greeks  .and  Latins,  was  a 
remain  of  this  doctrine. 

As  the  limits  of  this  paper  will  not  allow  me  to 
take  in  all  the  branches  of  this  subject,  I  shall 


454  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

confine  my  attention  to  the  opinions  held  by  these 
early  nations  of  the  nature  of  the  Godhead. 

Amidst  the  corruptions  introduced  by  the  Magi, 
we  may  discern,  with  tolerable  certainty,  that 
Zoroaster  taught  the  worship  of  the  one  true  God  ; 
and  Thales,  Pythagoras,  and  Plato,  who  had  all 
been  instituted  in  the  mysteries  of  the  Chaldeans, 
taught  the  same  doctrine.  These  philosophers 
likewise  asserted  the  omnipotence  and  eternity  of 
God  ;  and  that  he  was  the  creator  of  all  things, 
and  the  governor  of  the  universe.  Plato  decisively 
supported  the  doctrines  of  future  rewards  and 
punishments  ;  and  Pythagoras,  struck  with  the 
idea  of  the  omnipresence  of  the  Deity,  defined  him 
as  animus  per  universas  mundi  paries  omnemque 
naturam  commeans  atque  diffusus,  ex  quo  omnia 
quse  nascunter  animalia  vitam  capiunt.*  —  An 
intelligence  moving  upon,  and  diffused  over  all  the 
parts  of  the  universe  and  all  nature,  from  which 
all  animals  derive  their  existence.  As  for  the 
swarm  of  gods  worshipped  both  in  Egypt  and 
Greece,  it  is  evident  they  were  only  esteemed  as 
inferior  deities.  In  the  time  of  St.  Paul,  there 
was  a  temple  at  Athens  inscribed  to  the  unknown 
God  :  and  Hesiod  makes  them  younger  than  the 
earth  and  heaven. 


THEOG. 

*  Lanctantius  Div.  Inst  lib.  cap.  5.  etiam,  Minucius  Feli*, 
"  Py  thagorse  Deus  est  animus  per  universam  rerum  naturam 
commeans  atque  intentus  ex  quo  etiam  animalium  omnium 
vita  capiatur." 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  455 

If  Pythagoras,  and  the  other  philosophers  who 
succeeded  him,  paid  honor  to  these  gods,  they 
either  did  it  through  fear  of  encountering  ancient 
prejudices,  or  they  reconciled  it  by  recurring  to  the 
Daemonology  of  their  masters,  the  Chaldeans,  who 
maintained  the  agency  of  good  and  bad  Daemons, 
who  presided  over  different  things,  and  were 
distinguished  into  the  powers  of  light  and  darkness, 
heat  and  cold.  It  is  remarkable,  too,  that  amongst 
all  these  people,  whether  Egyptians  or  Chaldeans, 
Greeks  or  Romans,  as  well  as  every  other  nation 
under  the  sun,  sacrifices  were  made  to  the  gods, 
in  order  to  render  them  propitious  to  their  wishes, 
or  to  expiate  their  offences — a  fact  which  proves, 
that  the  conviction  of  the  interference  of  the  Deity 
in  human  affairs  is  universal ;  and,  what  is  much 
more  important,  that  this  custom  is  primitive,  and 
derived  from  the  first  inhabitants  of  the  world. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 

(No.  XII.) 

WHILE  the  seat  of  empire  was  yet  at  Byzan- 
tium, and  that  city  was  the  centre,  not  only  of 
dominion,  but  of  learning  and  politeness,  a  certain 
hermit  had  fixed  his  residence  in  a  cell,  on  the 


456  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

banks  of  the  Athyras,  at  the  distance  of  about  ten 
miles  from  the  capital.  The  spot  was  retired, 
although  so  near  the  great  city,  and  was  protected, 
as  well  by  woods  and  precipices  as  by  the  awful 
reverence  with  which,  at  that  time,  all  ranks 
beheld  the  character  of  a  recluse.  Indeed,  the 
poor  old  man,  who  tenanted  the  little  hollow,  at 
the  summit  of  a  crag,  beneath  which  the  Athyras 
rolls  its  impetuous  torrent,  was  not  famed  for  the 
severity  of  his  penances,  or  the  strictness  of  his 
mortifications.  That  he  was  either  studious,  or 
protracted  his  devotions  to  a  late  hour,  was  evident, 
for  his  lamp  was  often  seen  to  stream  through  the 
trees  which  shaded  his  dwelling,  when  accident 
called  any  of  the  peasants  from  their  beds  at 
unseasonable  hours.  Be  this  as  it  may,  no 
miracles  were  imputed  to  him ;  the  sick  rarely 
came  to  petition  for  the  benefit  of  his  prayers,  and, 
though  some  both  loved  him,  and  had  good  reason 
for  loving  him,  yet  many  undervalued  him  for  the 
want  of  that  very  austerity  which  the  old  man 
seemed  most  desirous  to  avoid. 

It  was  evening,  and  the  long  shadows  of  the 
Thracian  mountains  were  extending  still  farther 
and  farther  along  the  plains,  when  this  old  man 
was  disturbed  in  his  meditations  by  the  approach 
of  a  stranger.  "How  far  is  it  to  Byzantium?" 
was  the  question  put  by  the  traveller.  "  Not  far 
to  those  who  know  the  country,"  replied  the 
hermit,  "  but  a  stranger  would  not  easily  find  his 
way  through  the  windings  of  these  woods,  and 
the  intricacies  of  the  plains  beyond  them.  Do  you 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  457 

see  that  blue  mist  which  stretches  along  th& 
bounding  line  of  the  horizon  as  far  as  the  trees 
will  permit  the  eye  to  trace  it  ?  That  is  the  Pro- 
pontis :  and  higher  up  on  the  left,  the  city  of  Con- 
stantinople rears  its  proud  head  above  the  waters. 
But  I  would  dissuade  thee,  stranger,  from  pursuing 
thy  journey  farther  to-night.  Thou  mayest  rest 
in  the  village,  which  is  half  way  down  the  hill ; 
or  if  thou  wilt  share  my  supper  of  roots,  and  put 
up  with  a  bed  of  leaves,  my  cell  is  open  to  thee." — 
"  I  thank  thee,  father,"  replied  the  youth,  « I  am 
weary  with  my  journey,  and  will  accept  thy 
proffered  hospitality."  They  ascended  the  rock 
together.  The  hermit's  cell  was  the  work  of 
nature.  It  penetrated  far  into  the  rock,  and  in  the 
innermost  recess  was  a  little  chapel,  furnished  with 
a  crucifix,  and  a  human  skull,  the  objects  of  the 
hermit's  nightly  and  daily  contemplation,  for 
neither  of  them  received  his  adoration.  That 
corruption  had  not  as  yet  crept  into  the  Christian 
church.  The  hermit  now  lighted  up  a  fire  of  dry 
sticks,  (for  the  nights  are  very  piercing  in  the 
regions  about  the  Hellespont  and  the  Bosphorus,) 
and  then  proceeded  to  prepare  their  vegetable 
meal.  While  he  was  thus  employed,  his  young 
guest  surveyed,  with  surprise,  the  dwelling  which 
he  was  to  inhabit  for  the  night.  A  cold  rock-hole 
on  the  bleak  summit  of  one  of  the  Thracian  hills, 
seemed  to  him  a  comfortless  choice  fora  weak  and 
solitary  old  man.  The  rude  materials  of  his 
scanty  furniture  still  more  surprised  hirr^.  A  table 
fixed  to  the  ground,  a  wooden  bench,  an  earthen 
39 


458  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

lamp,  a  number  of  rolls  of  papyrus  and  vellum, 
and  a  heap  of  leaves  in  a  corner,  the  hermit's  bed, 
were  all  his  stock.     "  Is  it  possible,"  at  length  he 
exclaimed,  "  that  you  can  tenant  this  comfortless 
cave,  with  these  scanty  accommodations,  through 
choice  :  Go  with  me,  old  man,  to  Constantinople, 
and  receive  from  me  those   conveniences  which 
befit  your  years."     "  And  what  art  thou  going  to 
do  at  Constantinople,  my  young  friend  ?"  said  the 
hermit,  "  for  thy  dialect  bespeaks  thee  a  native  of 
more  southern  regions.     Am  I  mistaken,  art  thou 
not  an  Athenian?"  "  I  am  an  Athenian,"  replied 
the  youth,  "  by  birth,  but  I  hope   I  am  not  an 
Athenian  in  vice.     1  have  left  my  degenerate  birth- 
place in  quest  of  happiness.     I  have  learned  from 
my  master,  Speusippus,  a  genuine  asserter  of  the 
much  belied  doctrines  of    Epicurus,   that   as   a 
future  state  is  a  mere  phantom  and  vagary  of  the 
brain,  it  is  the  only  true  wisdom  to  enjoy  life  while 
we  have  it.     But  I  have  learned  from  him  also, 
that  virtue  alone  is  true  enjoyment.  I  am  resolved, 
therefore,  to  enjoy  life,  and  that  too  with  virtue, 
as  my  companion  and  guide.     My  travels  are 
begun  with  the  design  of  discovering  where  lean 
best  unite    both  objects :    enjoyment    the    most 
exquisite,  with  virtue   the  most  perfect.      You 
perhaps  may  have  reached  the  latter,  my  good 
father ;    the  former  you   have   certainly  missed. 
To-morrow  I  shall  continue  my  search.     At  Con- 
stantinople, I  shall  laugh  and  sing  with  the  gay, 
meditate  with  the  sober,  drink  deeply  of  every 
unpolluted  pleasure,  and  taste  all  the  fountains  of 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  459 

wisdom  and  philosophy.  I  have  heard  much  of 
the  accomplishments  of  the  women  of  Byzantium. 
With  us,  females  are  mere  household  slaves ;  here, 
I  am  told,  they  have  minds.  I  almost  promise 
myself  that  I  shall  marry  and  settle  at  Constanti- 
nople, where  the  loves  and  graces  seem  alone  to 
reside,  and  where  even  the  women  have  minds. 
My  good  father,  how  the  wind  roars  about  this 
aerial  nest  of  yours,  and  here  you  sit  during  the 
long  cold  nights,  all  alone,  cold  and  cheerless,  when 
Constantinople  is  just  at  your  feet,  with  all  its 
joys,  its  comforts,  and  its  elegancies.  I  perceive 
that  the  philosophers  of  our  sect,  who  succeeded 
Epicurus,  were  right,  when  they  taught  that  there 
might  be  virtue  without  enjoyment,  and  that  virtue 
without  enjoyment  is  not  worth  the  having."  The 
face  of  the  youth  kindled  with  animation  as  he 
spake  these  words,  and  he  visibly  enjoyed  the 
consciousness  of  superior  intelligence.  The  old 
man  sighed  and  was  silent.  As  they  ate  their 
frugal  supper,  both  parties  seemed  involved  in 
deep  thought.  The  young  traveller  was  dreaming 
of  the  Byzantine  women :  his  host  seemed 
occupied  with  far  different  meditations.  "  So  you 
are  travelling  to  Constantinople  in  search  of 
happiness  ?"  at  length  exclaimed  the  hermit ;  "  I 
too  have  been  a  suitor  of  that  divinity,  and  it  may 
be  of  use  to  you  to  hear  how  I  have  fared.  The 
history  of  my  life  will  serve  to  fill  up  the  interval 
before  we  retire  to  rest,  arid  my  experience  may 
not  prove  altogether  useless  to  one  who  is  about  to 
go  the  same  journey  which  I  have  finished. 


460  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

«  These  scanty  hairs  of  mine  were  not  always 
gray,  nor  these  limbs  decrepid  :  I  was  once,  like 
thee,  young,  fresh,  and  vigorous,  full  of  delightful 
dreams  and  gay  anticipations.  Life  seemed  a 
garden  of  sweets,  a  path  of  roses ;  and  I  thought 
I  had  but  to  chose  in  what  way  I  would  be  happy. 
I  will  pass  over  the  incidents  of  my  boyhood,  and 
come  to  my  maturer  years.  I  had  scarcely  seen 
twenty  summers,  when  I  formed  one  of  those  ex- 
travagant and  ardent  attachments,  of  which  youth 
is  so  susceptible.  It  happened,  that,  at  that  time, 
I  bore  arms  under  the  emperor  Theodosius,  in  his 
expedition  against  the  Goths,  who  had  over-run 
a  part  of  Thrace.  In  our  return  from  a  successful 
campaign,  we  staid  some  time  in  the  Greek  cities, 
which  border  on  the  Euxine.  In  one  of  these 
cities  I  became  acquainted  with  a  female,  whose 
form  was  not  more  elegant  than  her  mind  was 
cultivated,  and  her  heart  untainted.  I  had  done 
her  family  some  trivial  services,  and  her  gratitude 
spoke  too  warmly  to  my  intoxicated  brain  to  leave 
any  doubt  on  my  mind  that  she  loved  me.  The 
idea  was  too  exquisitely  pleasing  to  be  soon  dis- 
missed. I  sought  every  occasion  of  being  with  her. 
Her  mild,  persuasive  voice  seemed  like  the  music 
of  heaven  to  my  ears,  after  the  toils  and  roughness 
of  a  soldier's  life.  I  had  a  friend,  too,  whose  con- 
verse, next  to  that  of  the  dear  object  of  my  secret 
love,  was  most  dear  to  me.  He  formed  the  third 
in  all  our  meetings,  and  beyond  the  enjoyment  of 
the  society  of  these  two,  I  had  not  a  wish.  I  had 
never  yet  spoken  explicitly  to  my  female  friend, 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  4G1 

but  I  fondly  hoped  we  understood  each  other. 
Why  should  I  dwell  on  the  subject  ?  I  was  mis- 
taken. My  friend  threw  himself  on  my  mercy. 
I  found  that  he,  not  I,  was  the  object  of  her  affec- 
tions. Young  man,  you  may  conceive,  but  I  cannot 
describe  what  I  felt,  as  I  joined  their  hands.  The 
stroke  was  severe;  and,  for  a  time,  unfitted  me  for 
the  duties  of  my  station.  I  suffered  the  army  to 
leave  the  place  without  accompanying  it :  and 
thus  lost  the  rewards  of  my  past  services,  and 
forfeited  the  favor  of  my  sovereign.  This  was 
another  source  of  anxiety  and  regret  to  me,  as  my 
mind  recovered  its  wonted  tone.  But  the  mind 
of  youth,  however  deeply  it  may  feel  for  a  while, 
eventually  rises  up  from  dejection,  and  regains  its 
wonted  elasticity.  That  rigor  by  which  the  spirit 
recovers  itself  from  the  depths  of  useless  regret, 
and  enters  upon  new  prospects  with  its  accustomed 
ardor,  is  only  subdued  by  time.  I  now  applied 
myself  to  the  study  of  philosophy,  under  a  Greek 
master,  and  all  my  ambition  was  directed  towards 
letters.  But  ambition  is  not  quite  enough  to  fill 
a  young  man's  heart.  I  still  felt  a  void  there,  and 
sighed  as  I  reflected  on  the  happiness  of  my  friend. 
At  the  time  when  I  visited  the  object  of  my  first 
love,  a  young  Christian  woman,  her  frequent 
companion  had  sometimes  taken  my  attention. 
She  was  an  Ionian  by  birth,  and  had  all  the  soft- 
ness and  pensive  intelligence  which  her  country- 
women are  said  to  possess  when  unvitiated  by 
the  corruptions  so  prevelant  in  that  delightful 
region.  You  are  no  stranger  to  the  contempt  with 
39* 


462  MELANCHOLY    HOURS. 

which  the  Greeks  then  treated,  and  do  still,  in 
some  places,  treat  the  Christians.  This  young 
woman  bore  that  contempt  with  a  calmness  which 
surprised  me.  There  were  then  but  few  converts 
to  that  religion  in  those  parts,  and  its  profession 
was  therefore  more  exposed  to  ridicule  and  per- 
secution from  its  strangeness.  Notwithstanding 
her  religion,  I  thought  I  could  love  this  interesting 
and  amiable  female,  and,  in  spite  of  my  former 
mistake,  I  had  the  vanity  to  imagine  I  was  not 
indifferent  to  her.  As  our  intimacy  increased,  I 
learned  to  my  astonishment,  that  she  regarded  me 
as  one  involved  in  ignorance  and  error :  and  that, 
although  she  felt  an  affection  for  me,  yet  she  would 
never  become  my  wife,  while  I  remained  devoted 
to  the  religion  of  my  ancestors.  Piqued  at  this 
discovery,  I  received  the  books,  which  she  now 
for  the  first  time  put  into  my  hands,  with  pity  and 
contempt.  I  expected  to  find  them  nothing  but 
the  repositories  of  a  miserable  and  deluded  super- 
stition, more  presuming  than  the  mystical  leaves 
of  the  Sibyls,  or  the  obscure  triads  of  Zoroaster. 
How  was  I  mistaken  !  There  was  much  which 
I  could  not  at  all  comprehend ;  but,  in  the  midst 
of  this  darkness,  the  effect  of  my  ignorance,  I 
discerned  a  system  of  morality,  so  exalted,  so  ex- 
quisitely pure,  and  so  far  removed  from  all  I  would 
have  conceived  of  the  most  perfect  virtue,  that 
all  the  philosophy  of  the  Grecian  world  seemed 
worse  than  dross  in  the  comparison.  My  former 
learning  had  only  served  to  teach  me  that  some- 
thing was  wanting  to  complete  the  systems  of 


MELANCHOLY    HOURS.  .      463 

philosophers.  Here  that  invisible  link  was  sup- 
plied, and  I  could  even  then  observe  a  harmony 
and  consistency  in  the  whole  which  carried  irresist- 
ible conviction  to  my  mind.  I  will  not  enlarge 
on  this  subject.  Christianity  is  not  a  mere  set  of 
opinions  to  be  embraced  by  the  understanding. 
It  is  the  work  of  the  heart  as  well  as  the  head. 
Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that,  in  time,  I  became  a 
Christian,  and  the  husband  of  Sapphira. 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 

TO    THE 

MEMORY  OF  H.  K.  WHITE. 
BY  A  LADY. 

IP  worth,  if  genius,  to  the  world  are  dear, 
To  Henry's  shade  devote  no  common  tear. 
His  worth  on  no  precarious  tenure  hung, 
From  genuine  piety  his  virtues  sprung  : 
If  pure  benevolence,  if  steady  sense, 
Can  to  the  feeling  heart  delight  dispense ; 
If  all  the  highest  efforts  of  the  mind, 
Exalted,  noble,  elegant,  refined, 
Call  for  fond  sympathy's  heart-felt  regret, 
Ye  sons  of  genius,  pay  the  mournful  debt : 
His  friends  can  truly  speak  how  large  his  claim, 
And  «  Life  was  only  wanting  to  his  fame." 
Art  thou,  indeed,  dear  youth,  forever  fled  ? 
So  quickly  number'd  with  the  silent  dead. 
Too  sure  I  read  it  in  the  downcast  eye, 
Hear  it  in  mourning  friendship's  stifled  sigh. 
Ah  !  could  esteem,  or  admiration,  save 
So  dear  an  object  from  th'  untimely  grave, 
This  transcript  faint  had  not  essay'd  to  tell, 
The  loss  of  one  beloved,  revered  so  well. 
Vainly  I  try,  even  eloquence  were  weak, 
The  silent  sorrow  that  I  feel,  to  speak. 

465 


466  TRIBUTARY    VERSES. 

No  more  my  hours  of  pain  thy  voice  will  cheer, 
And  bind  my  spirit  to  this  lower  sphere ; 
Bend  o'er  my  suffering  frame  with  gentle  sigh, 
And  bid  new  fire  relume  my  languid  eye : 
No  more  the  pencil's  mimic  art  command, 
And  with  kind  pity  guide  my  trembling  hand ; 
Nor  dwell  upon  the  page  in  fond  regard, 
To  trace  the  meaning  of  the  Tuscan  bard. 
Vain  all  the  pleasures  thou  can'st  not  inspire, 
And  "  in  my  breast  th'  imperfect  joys  expire," 
I  fondly  hoped  thy  hand  might  grace  my  shrine, 
And  little  dream'd  I  should  have  wept  o'er  thine . 
In  Fancy's  eye  methought  I  saw  the  lyre 
With  virtue's  energies  each  bosom  fire ; 
I  saw  admiring  nations  press  around, 
Eager  to  catch  the  animating  sound : 
And  when,  at  length,  sunk  in  the  shades  of  night, 
To  brighter  worlds  thy  spirit  wing'd  its  flight, 
Thy  country  hail'd  thy  venerated  shade, 
And  each  graced  honour  to  thy  memory  paid. 
Such  was  the  fate  hope  pictured  to  my  view — 
But  who,  alas  !  e'er  found  hope's  visions  true? 
And,  ah  !  a  dark  presage,  when  last  we  met, 
Sadden 'd  the  social  hour  with  deep  regret ; 
When  thou  thy  portrait  from  the  minstrel  drew, 
The  living  Edwin  starting  on  my  view — 
Silent,  I  ask'd  of  Heaven  a  lengthen'd  date ; 
His  genius  thine,  but  not  like  thine  his  fate. 
Shuddering  I  gazed,  and  saw  too  sure  reveal'd, 
The  fatal  truth,  by  hope  till  then  conceal'd. 
Too  strong  the  portion  of  celestial  flame 
For  its  weak  tenement,  the  fragile  frame ; 


TRIBUTARY    VERSES.  467 

Too  soon  for  us  it  sought  its  native  sky, 

And  soar'd  impervious  to  the  mortal  eye ; 

Like  some  clear  planet,  shadovv'd  from  our  sight, 

Leaving  behind  long  tracks  of  lucid  light : 

So  shall  thy  bright  example  fire  each  youth 

With  love  of  virtue,  piety,  and  truth. 

Long  o'er  thy  loss  shall  grateful  Granta  mourn, 

And  bid  her  sons  revere  thy  favour'd  urn. 

When  thy  loved  flower  "  Spring's  victory  makes 

known," 

The  primrose  pale  shall  bloom  for  thee  alone : 
Around  thy  urn  the  rosemary  we'll  spread, 
Whose  "  tender  fragrance,"  emblem  of  the  dead, 
Shall  "  teach  the  maid,  whose  bloom  no  longei 

lives," 

That  "  virtue  every  perish'd  grace  survives." 
Farewell !  sweet  Moralist ;  heart-sickening  grief 
Tells  me  in  duty's  path  to  seek  relief, 
With  surer  aim  on  faith's  strong  pinions  rise, 
And  seek  hope's  vanish'd  anchor  in  the  skies. 
Yet  still  on  thee  shall  fond  remembrance  dwell, 
And  to  the  world  thy  worth  delight  to  tell : 
Though  well  I  feel  unworthy  thee  the  lays 
That  to  thy  memory  weeping  friendship  pays. 


TRIBUTARY    VERSES. 


STANZAS 

Supposed  to  have  been  written  at  the  Grave  of 
H.  K.  White. 

BY   A   LADY. 


Ye  gentlest  gales !  oh,  hither  waft, 
On  airy  Undulating  sweeps, 

Your  frequent  sighs,  so  passing  soft, 
Where  he,  the  youthful  Poet,  sleeps  ! 

He  breathed  the  purest,  tenderest  sigh, 

The  sigh  of  sensibility. 


And  thou  shalt  lie,  his  favourite  flower, 
Pale  Primrose,  on  his  grave  reclined : 

Sweet  emblem  of  his  fleeting  hour, 
And  of  his  pure,  his  spotless  mind ! 

Like  thee,  he  sprung  in  lowly  vale ; 

And  felt,  like  thee,  the  trying  gale. 

3. 

Nor  hence  thy  pensive  eye  seclude, 
Oh  thou,  the  fragrant  Rosemary, 

Where  he,  "  in  marble  solitude, 

So  peaceful,  and  so  deep,"  doth  lie  ! 


TRIBUTARY    VERSES.  469 

His  harp  prophetic  sung  to  thee 
In  notes  of  sweetest  minstrelsy. 

4. 
Ye  falling  dews,  Oh  !  ever  leave 

Your  chrystal  drops  these  flowers  to  steep  : 
At  earliest  morn,  at  latest  eve, 

Oh  let  them  for  their  Poet  weep  ! 
For  tears  bedew'd  his  gentle  eye, 
The  tears  of  heavenly  sympathy. 

5. 

Thou  western  Sun,  effuse  thy  beams  ; 

For  he  was  wont  to  pace  the  glade, 
To  watch  in  pale  uncertain  gleams, 

The  crimson-zoned  horizon  fade — 
Thy  last,  thy  setting  radiance  pour, 
Where  he  is  set  to  rise  no  more. 


ODE 

On  the  late  H.  K.  White. 

AND  is  the  minstrel's  voyage  o'er  ? 

And  is  the  star  of  genius  fled  ? 
And  will  his  magic  harp  no  more, 

Mute  in  the  mansions  of  the  dead, 
Its  strains  seraphic  pour  ? 

A  Pilgrim  in  this  world  of  wo, 
Condemn 'd,  alas !  awhile  to  stray, 
40 


470  TRIBUTARY    VERSES. 

Where  bristly  thorns,  where  briars  grow, 

He  bade,  to  cheer  the  gloomy  way, 
Its  heavenly  music  flow. 

And  oft  he  bade,  by  fame  inspired, 
Its  wild  notes  seek  th'  ethereal  plain, 

Till  angels  by  its  music  fired, 

Have,  listening,  caught  th'  ecstatic  strain, 

Have  wonder'd,  and  admired. 

But  now  secure  on  happier  shores, 
With  choirs  of  sainted  souls  he  sings  ; 

His  harp  th'  Omnipotent  adores, 
And  from  its  sweet,  its  silver  strings 

Celestial  music  pours. 

And  though  on  earth  no  more  he'll  weave 
The  lay  that's  fraught  with  magic  fire. 

Yet  oft  shall  Fancy  hear  at  eve 
His  now  exalted,  heavenly  lyre 

In  sounds  ^Eolian  grieve. 

JUVENIS. 
B.  Stoke. 


VERSES 

Occasioned  by  the  death  of  H.  K.  White. 

WHAT  is  this  world  at  best, 
Though  deck'd  in  vernal  bloom, 
By  hope  and  youthful  fancy  dress'd, 
What,  but  a  ceaseless  toil  for  rest, 


TRIBUTARY    VERSES.  471 

A  passage  to  the  tomb  ? 
If  flowerets  strew 
The  avenue, 
Though  fair,  alas !  how  fading,  and  how  few. 

And  every  hour  comes  arm'd 
By  sorrow,  or  by  wo  : 
Conceai'd  beneath  its  little  wings, 
A  sithe  the  soft-shod  pilferer  brings, 
To  lay  some  comfort  low  : 
Some  tie  t'  unbind, 
By  love  entwined, 
Some  silken  bond  that  holds  the  captive  mind. 

And  every  month  displays 
The  ravages  of  time  : 
Faded  the  flowers  ! — The  Spring  is  past ! 
The  scatter'd  leaves,  the  wintry  blast, 
Warn  to  a  milder  clime : 
The  songsters  flee 
The  leafless  tree, 
And  bear  to  happier  realms  their  melody. 

Henry  !  the  world  no  more 
Can  claim  thee  for  her  own  ! 
In  purer  skies  thy  radiance  beams ! 
Thy  lyre  employed  on  nobler  themes 
Before  th'  eternal  throne  : 
Yet,  spirit  dear, 
Forgive  the  tear 

Which  those  must  shed  who're  doom'd  to  lin- 
ger here. 


472  TRIBUTARY    VERSES. 

Although  a  stranger,  I 
In  friendship's  train  would  weep  : 
Lost  to  the  world,  alas  !  so  young, 
And  must  thy  lyre,  in  silence  hung, 
On  the  dark  cypress  sleep  ? 
The  poet,  all 
Their  friend  may  call ; 
And  Nature's  self  attends  his  funeral. 

Although  with  feeble  wing 
Thy  flight  1  would  pursue, 
With  quicken'd  zeal,  with  humbled  pride, 
Alike  our  object,  hopes,  and  guide, 
One  heaven  alike  in  view  ; 
True,  it  was  thine 
To  tower,  to  shine  ; 
But  I  may  make  thy  milder  virtues  mine. 

If  Jesus  own  my  name, 
(Though  fame  pronounced  it  never,) 
Sweet  spirit,  not  with  thee  alone, 
But  all  whose  absence  here  I  moan, 
Circling  with  harps  the  golden  throne, 
I  shall  unite  for  ever: 
At  death  then  why 
Tremble  or  sigh  ? 

Oh  !  who  would  wish  to  live,  but  he  who  fears 
to  die ! 

JOSIAH    CONDER. 

Dec.  5th,  1807. 


TRIBUTARY    VERSES.  473 


SONNET, 

On  seeing  another  written  to  H.  K.  White,  in   September 
1803,  inserted  in  his  "  Remains  by  Robert  Southey." 

BY  ARTHUR  OWEN. 

AH  !  once  again  the  long-left  wires  among, 
Truants  the  Muse  to  weave  her  requiem  song ; 
With  sterner  lore  now  busied,  erst  the  lay 
Cheer'd  my  dark  morn  of  manhood,  wont  to  stray 
O'er  fancy's  fields  in  quest  of  musky  flower ; 

To  me  nor  fragrant  less,  though  barr'd  from 

view 
And  courtship  of  the  world :  hail'd  was  the  hour 

That  gave  me,  dripping  fresh  with  nature's  dew, 
Poor  Henry's  budding  beauties — to  a  clime 

Hapless  transplanted,  whose  exotic  ray 

Forced  their  young  vigour  into  transient  day, 
And  drain'd  the  stalk  that  rear'd  them  !  and  shall 

time 
Trample    these    orphan    blossoms  ? — No  !    they 

breathe 
Still  lovelier  charms — for  Southey  culls  the  wreath ! 

Oxford,  Dec.  17th,  1807. 


40 


474  TRIBUTARY    VERSES. 


SONNET 

In  Memory  of  Mr.  H.  K.  White. 

«'Tis  now  the  dead  of  night,"  and  I  will  go 
To  where  the  brook  soft-murmuring  glides  along 

In  the  still  wood ;  yet  does  the  plaintive  song 
Of  Philomela  through  the  welkin  flow  ; 
And  while  pale  Cynthia  carelessly  doth  throw 

Her  dewy  beams  the  verdant  boughs  among, 

Will  sit  beneath  some  spreading  oak  tree  strong, 
And  intermingle  with  the  streams  my  wo : 
Hush'd  in  deep  silence  every  gentle  breeze ; 

No  mortal  breath  disturbs  the  awful  gloom ; 
Cold,  chilling  dew-drops  trickle  down  the  trees, 

And  every  flower  withholds  its  rich  perfume  : 
"Tis  sorrow  leads  me  to  that  sacred  ground 
Where  Henry  moulders  in  a  sleep  profound ! 

J.  G. 


REFLECTIONS, 

On  reading  the  Life  of  the  late  H.  K.  White. 

BY  WILLIAM  HOLLOWAY, 
Author  of  "  The  Peasant's  Fate." 

DARLING  of  science  and  the  muse, 
How  shall  a  son  of  song  refuse 


TRIBUTARY    VERSES.  475 

To  shed  a  tear  for  thee  ? 
To  us,  so  soon,  for  ever  lost, 
What  hopes,  what  prospects  have  been  cross'd 

By  Heaven's  supreme  decree  ? 

How  could  a  parent,  love-beguiled, 
In  life's  fair  prime  resign  a  child 

So  duteous,  good,  and  kind  ? 
The  warblers  of  the  soothing  strain 
Must  string  the  elegiac  lyre  in  vain 

To  soothe  the  wounded  mind ! 

Yet  Fancy,  hovering  round  the  tomb, 
Half  envies,  while  she  mourns  thy  doom, 

Dear  poet,  saint,  and  sage  ! 
Who  into  one  short  span,  at  best, 
The  wisdom  of  an  age  compress'd, 

A  patriarch's  lengthen'd  age  ! 

To  him  a  genius  sanctified, 
And  purged  from  literary  pride, 

A  sacred  boon  was  given  : 
Chaste  as  the  psalmist's  harp,  his  lyre 
Celestial  raptures  could  inspire, 

And  lift  the  soul  to  Heaven. 

'Twas  not  the  laurel  earth  bestows., 
'Twas  not  the  praise  from  man  that  flows, 

With  classic  toil  he  sought  : 
He  sought  the  crown  that  martyrs  wear, 
When  rescued  from  a  world  of  care ; 

Their  spirit  too  he  caught. 


476  TRIBUTARY    VERSES. 

Here  come,  ye  thoughtless,  vain,  and  gay, 
Who  idly  range  in  Folly's  way, 

And  learn  the  ivorth  of  time : 
Learn  ye,  whose  days  have  run  to  waste, 
How  to  redeem  this  pearl  at  last, 

Atoning  for  your  crime. 

This  flower,  that  droop 'd  in  one  cold  clime, 
Transplanted  from  the  soil  of  time 

To  immortality, 

In  full  perfection  there  shall  bloom ; 
And  those  who  now  lament  his  doom 

Must  bow  to  God's  decree. 
London,  27th  Feb.  1808. 


ON  READING  THE  POEM  ON 
SOLITUDE. 

BUT  art  thou  thus  indeed  "alone?" 
Quite  unbefriended — all  unknown  ? 
And  hast  thou  then  his  name  forgot 
Who  form'd  thy  frame,  and  fix'd  thy  lot  ? 

Is  not  his  voice  in  evening's  gale  • 
Beams  not  with  him  the  "  star"  so  pale  ? 
Is  there  a  leaf  can  fade  and  die, 
Unnoticed  by  his  watchful  eye  ? 

Each  fluttering  hope — each  anxious  tear— 
Each  lonely  sigh — each  silent  tear — 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES.  477 

To  thine  Almighty  Friend  are  known ; 
And  say'st  thou,  thou  art  "  all  alone  ?" 

JOSIAH  CONDER. 


TO    THE 

MEMORY  OF   H.  K.   WHITE, 

BY  THE  REV.  W.  B.   COLLYER,  A.  M. 

0,  LOST  too  soon  !  accept  the  tear 
A  stranger  to  thy  memory  pays  ! 

Dear  to  the  muse,  to  science  dear, 
In  the  young  morning  of  thy  days  ! 

All  the  wild  notes  that  pity  loved 
Awoke,  responsive  still  to  thee, 

While  o'er  the  lyre  thy  fingers  roved 
In  softest,  sweetest  harmony. 

The  chords  that  in  the  human  heart 
Compassion  touches  as  her  own, 

Bore  in  thy  symphonies  a  part — 
With  them  in  perfect  unison. 

Amidst  accumulated  woes, 

That  premature  afflictions  bring, 

Submission's  sacred  hymn  arose, 

Warbled  from  every  mournful  string. 

When  o'er  thy  dawn  the  darkness  spread, 
And  deeper  every  moment  grew  ; 


478  TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 

When  rudely  round  thy  youthful  head, 
The  chilling  blasts  of  sickness  blew ; 

Religion  heard  no  'plainings  loud, 
The  sigh  in  secret  stole  from  thee  ; 

And  pity,  from  the  "  dropping  cloud," 
Shed  tears  of  holy  sympathy. 

Cold  is  that  heart  in  which  were  met 
More  virtues  than  could  ever  die ; 

The  morning-star  of  hope  is  set — 
The  sun  adorns  another  sky. 

0  partial  grief!  to  mourn  the  day 

So  suddenly  o'erclouded  here, 
To  rise  with  unextinguish'd  ray — 

To  shine  in  a  superior  sphere ! 

Oft  genius  early  quits  this  sod, 

Impatient  of  a  robe  of  clay, 
Spreads  the  light  pinion,  spurns  the  clod, 

And  smiles,  and  soars,  and  steals  away ! 

But  more  than  genius  urged  thy  flight, 

And  mark'd  the  way,  dear  youth  !  for  thee 

Henry  sprang  up  to  worlds  of  light, 
On  wings  of  immortality ! 

Blackheath  Hill,  24th  June,  1803. 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES.  479 


WRITTEN    IN 

THE  HOMER  OF  MR.  H.  K.  WHITE. 

Presented  to  me  by  his  Brother,  J.  Neville  White. 

BARD  of  brief  days,  but  ah,  of  deathless  fame  ! 

While  on  these  awful  leaves  my  fond  eyes  rest, 

On  which  thine  late  have  dwelt,  thy  hand  late 

press'd, 

I  pause  ;  arid  gaze  regretful  on  thy  name. 
By  neither  chance  nor  envy,  time  nor  flame, 

Be  it  from  this  its  mansion  dispossess'd! 

But  thee  Eternity  clasps  to  her  breast, 
And  in  celestial  splendor  thrones  thy  claim. 

II. 

No  more  with  mortal  pencil  shall  thou  trace 

An  imitative  radiance  :*  thy  pure  lyre 
Springs  from  our  changeful  atmosphere's  embrace, 

And  beams  and  breathes  in  empyreal  fire : 
The  Homeric  and  Miltonian  sacred  tone 
Responsive  hail  that  lyre  congenial  to  their  own. 

C.  L. 
Bury,  llth  Jan.  1807. 

*  Alluding  to  his  pencilled  sketch  of  a  head  surrounded 
with  a  glory. 


480  TRIBUTARY    VERSES. 


ON 

THE  DEATH  OF  H.  K.  WHITE. 

Too,  too  prophetic  did  thy  wild  note  swell, 

Impassion'd  minstrel !  when  its  pitying  wail 
Sigh'd  o'er  the  vernal  primrose  as  it  fell 

Untimely,  wither'd  by  the  northern  gale.* 
Thou  wert  that  flower  of  promise  and  of  prime  ! 

Whose  opening  bloom,  'mid  many  an  adverse 

blast,  [clirne, 

Charm'd  the  lone  wanderer  through  this  desart 

But  charm'd  him  with  a  rapture  soon  o'ercast, 
To  see  thee  languish  into  quick  decay. 

Yet  was  not  thy  departing  immature  ? 
For  ripe  in  virtue  thou  wert  reft  away, 

And  pure  in  spirit,  as  the  bless'd  are  pure ; 
Pure  as  the  dew-drop,  freed  from  earthly  leaven, 
That  sparkles,  is  exhaled, and  blends  with  heaven  !t 

T.  PAHK. 

*  See  Clifton  Grove. 

f  Young,  I  think,  says  of  Narcissa,  "  she  sparkled,  was 
exhaled,  and  went  to  Heaven." 


THE    END. 


Phillips,  Sampson  %  Company's  Publications. 

LIBRARY    EDITION 

OP 

STANDARD  POETICAL  WORKS. 


IN  UNIFORM  STYLE. 


TUPPER'S  POETICAL  WORKS;  embracing  Proverbial 
Philosophy,  Thousand  Lines,  Geraldine,  Hactenus,  and  Miscel- 
laneous Poems.  Complete  in  1  vol.,  12mo,  muslin,  fine  portrait, 
Price  51,00. 

COWPER'S  POETICAL  WORKS  ;  with  Life ;  a  new  edi- 
tion, 1  vol.,  12mo,  with  portrait.  Price  51,00. 

POPE'S  POETICAL  WORKS  ;  new  edition,  containing  a 
Life  of  the  Author.  Price  $1, 00. 

BYRON'S  POETICAL  WORKS ;  with  a  Sketch  of  his  Life, 
in  1  vol.,  12mo,  and  embellished  with  a  portrait.  Price  #1,00. 


MOORE'S  POETICAL  WORKS ;  an  entirely  new  edition,  in 
1  vol.,  with  portrait.  Price  gl,00. 

BURNS'S  POETICAL  WORKS  ;  embracing  a  Life  of  the  Au- 
thor, Glossary,  and  Notes.  A  new  edition,  1  vol.,  12mo,  with  fine 
portrait.  Price  $1,00.  

SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS ;  with  a  Memoir  of  the  Au- 
thor, embellished  with  a  portrait.  Price  $1,00. 

LIFE,  GEMS,  AND  BEAUTIES  OF  SHAKSPEARE ;  all 
embraced  in  1  vol.,  12mo,  containing  six  fine  engravings  and 
portrait.  Price  51,00. 

POETICAL  REMAINS  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE ;  con- 
taining a  Memoir  of  the  Author,  with  an  introductory  chapter  on 
his  religious  and  poetical  development,  by  Rev.  John  Todd. 
Price  51,00. 


Phittips,  Sampson  <Sp  Company's  Publications. 

LIBRARY    EDITION 

OF 

STANDARD  POETICAL  WORKS. 

IN  UNIFORM  STYLE. 

HEMANS'S  POETICAL  WORKS ;  an  entire  new  edition,  in  1 
vol.,  and  illustrated  with  steel  engravings.    Price  $1,00. 


HOWITT,  COOK  AND  LANGDON'S  POETICAL  WORKS ; 
a  new  edition,  1  vol.,  12mo,  neat  muslin.  Price  $1,00. 

MILTON  AND  YOUNG;  containing  Paradise  Lost,  and 
Young's  Night  Thoughts,  a  new  edition,  complete  in  1  vol.,  12tno, 
with  portrait.  Price  $l,0i). 

CROLY'S  BRITISH  POETS  ;  combining  the  beauties  of  the 
British  Poets,  with  introductory  observations  by  Rev.  George 
Croly,  1  vol.,  embellished  with  fine  steel  engravings.  Price 
$1,00. 

THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN;  a  new  edition,  containing  ten 
steel  engravings,  and  printed  on  fine  paper,  1  vol.,  12mo.  Price 
$1,00. 

THOMSON  AND  POLLOK ;  containing  the  Seasons,  by 
James  Thomson,  and  Course  of 'Time,  by  Robert  Pollok,  com- 
plete in  1  vol.,  12mo,  with  portrait.  Price  $1,00. 

WORDSWORTH'S  POETICAL  WORKS  ;  an  entirely  new 
edition,  from  plates  just  stereotyped,  complete  in  1  vol.,  12mo,  with 
portrait.  Price  $1,00. 

CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS;  including  his  Pleas- 
ures of  Hope,  Theodoric,  and  Miscellaneous  Poems,  many  of 
which  are  not  contained  in  the  former  editions.  Complete  in  1 
vol.,  12mo,  with  portrait.  Price  $1,00. 

The  above  poetical  works  are  uniform  in  size  and  binding,  and 
are  sold  separately,  or  together.  Their  size  and  style  considered, 
they  are  the  cheapest  library  editions  of  the  same  authors  before 
the  American  public. 


Phillips,  Sampson  $  Company's  Publications. 

Advice  to  Young  Ladies 

ON   THEIR 

DUTIES  AND  CONDUCT  IN  LIFE. 

BY   T.    S.    ARTHUR. 

Right  modes  of  thinking  are  the  basis  of  all  correct  action.  It  is  from 
this  cause  that  we  shall,  in  addressing  our  young  friends  on  tin  ir  duties  and 
conduct  in  life,  appeal  at  once  to  their  rational  faculty.  To  learn  to  think 
right  is,  therefore,  a  matter  of  primary  concern.  If  there  be.  light  modes 
of  thinking,  right  actions  will  follow  as  a  natural  consequence.  —  Extract 
from  the  -4ufA«r's  Introduction.  Price  75  Cents. 


Advice  to  Young  Men 

ON   THEIR 

DUTIES  AND  CONDUCT  IN  LIFE. 

BY    T.    S.    ARTHUR. 

The  aim  of  the  author  of  this  volume  has  been  to  lend  young  men  to  just 
conclusions,  from  reflections  upon  what  they  are,  unil  what  arc  their  duties 
in  society,  as  integral  parts  of  the  common  body.  Satisfied  tliHt  those  who 
read  it  as  it  should  be  read  cannot  f.il  to  have  their  good  purposes  strength- 
ened, nnd  theii  minds  elevated  into  sounder  views  of  life  tlian  usually  pre- 
vail, the  writer  dismisses  it  from  his  hands,  ami  turns  to  other  nutters  de- 
manding his  attention.  —  JiiUAor's  Preface.  Price  75  Cents 


The  Young  Lady's  Offering; 

OR,  GEMS  OF  PROSE  AND  POETRY. 

The  above  is  prepared  especially  as  a  gift  book  for  young  ladies,  embracing 
a  choice  arrangement  of  prose  and  poetic  combination,  adapting  it  particu- 
larly, as  its  title  indicates,  as  an  acceptable  offering  to  young  ladies.  Price 
$1,00.  

The  Young  Man's  Offering; 

COMPRISING 

PROSE  AND  POETICAL  WRITINGS 

OF  THE  MOST  EMINENT  AUTHORS. 

This  work  is  intended  to  be,  as  its  title  indicates,  a  useful  and  entertnin- 
inz  companion  to  young  men,  which  may  cheei  them  in  hours  of  languor  and 
of  sickness,  and  when  the  mind,  exhausted  by  its  efforts,  seek*,  in  amuse- 
ment, for  the  restoration  of  its  wonted  power's.  Illustrated  with  uumerout 
engravings.  Price  $1,00. 


Phillips,  Sampson  $  Company's  Publications. 

BIOGRAPHIES,  &c. 
Life  of  George  Washington, 

Commander-in-CJdef  of  the  American  Army  through  the  Rev- 
olutionary War,  and  the  first  President  of  the  United  States. 

BY  AARON  BANCROFT,  D.  D. 
Illustrated  with  Engravings.    12mo.,  Muslin,  $100. 

LIFE  AND  CAMPAIGNS  OF  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE ; 

Giving  an  account  of  all  his  engagements,  from  the  Siege  of  Toulon  to  the 
Battle  of  Waterloo  ;  also,  embracing  accounts  of  the  daring  exploits  of  hia 
marshals,  together  with  his  public  and  private  life,  from  the  commence 
ment  of  his  career  to  his  final  imprisonment  and  death  on  the  rock  of 
St.  Helena. 

Translated  from  the  French  of 

M.  A.  ARNAULT  AND  C.  L.  F.  PANCKOUCKE. 
Numerous  Engravings.    12mo.,  Muslin,  $1,00. 


HEROES  OF  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION; 

Comprising  the  Lives  of  Washington,  and  his  generals  and  officers  who 
were  the  most  distinguished  in  the  War  of  the  Independence  of  the  United 
States  ;  also  embracing  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  Signers' 
Names,  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  and  Amendments  ;  toeether 
with  the  Inaugural,  First  Annual,  and  Farewell  Addresses  of  Wash- 
ington. Four  Portraits,  12rno,  Muslin,  $1,00. 


PICTORIAL  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND, 

BY    HUME    AND    SMOLLETT. 
Abridged  and  continued  to  the  accession  of  VICTOR 
BY   JOHN    ROBINSON,    D.    D. 
Engravings,  12mo.,  Muslin,  $1,00. 


The  Life  of  our  Blessed  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesns Christ; 

To  which  is  added,  the  Lives  and  Sufferings  of  his   Holy  Evangelists, 
Apostles,  and  other  primitive  Martyrs. 

BY   THE    REV.    JOHN    FLEETWOOD,    D.  D. 
Numerous  Engravings,  12mo,  Muslin,  $1,00. 


PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS, 
FROM  THIS  WORLD  TO  THAT  WHICH  IS  TO  COME. 

BY   JOHN    BUNYAN. 

With  Notes,  and  a  Life  of  the  Author, 

BY    THE    REY.    THOMAS    SCOTT, 

Late  Chaplain  to  the  Lock  Hospital. 

Illustrated,  12mo,  Muslin,  $1,00. 


Phillips,  Sampson  %  Company's  Publications. 
COMPLETE 

LIBRARY  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY, 

ILLUSTRATED  WITH 

400    ENGRAVINGS. 

This  work  was  carefully  compiled  by  A.  A.  Gould,  M.  A.,  from  the  works 
of  Cuvier,  Griffith,  Richardson,  Geoffrey,  Lacepede,  Buffon,  Goldsmith, 
Shaw,  Montague,  Wilson,  Lewis  and  Clarke,  Audubon,  and  other  eminent 
writers  on  Natural  History. 

It  is  all  comprised  in  one  imperial  octavo  volume  of  about  1000  pages,  hand- 
lomely  bound,  and  is  in  itself,  as  its  title  indicates,  a  complete  library  on 
this  subject.  Price  $3,00. 


SHAKSFEARE'S 

DRAMATIC  WORKS; 

Complete  in  seven  volumes,  imperial  octavo,  of  nearly  550  pages  each  ; 
forming  in  all  nearly  4000  pages.  The  above  edition  of  the  great  dramatist 
is  known  as  the  "  magnificent  Boston  edition,"  being  celebrated  for  its  tran- 
scendent beauty  of  typography ;  and  in  this  regard  altogether  the  finest  Amer- 
ican edition  extant. 


PROVERBIAL   PHILOSOPHY, 

A  BOOK  OF  THOUGHTS  AND  ARGUMENTS  ORIG- 
INALLY TREATED. 

BY    MARTIN    FARQUHAR   TUPPER,    M.    A. 

First  and  second  series,  complete  in  1  vol.,  12rao,  with  fine  portrait,  and 
bound  in  the  various  styles  of  plain,  full  gift,  &c. 


THE   MECHANIC'S  TEXT  BOOK, 

ENGINEER'S    PRACTICAL    GUIDE  5 

Containing  a  concise  treatise  of  the  nature  and  application  of  mechanical 
forces  ;  action  of  gravity  ;  the  elements  of  machinery  ;  rules  and  tables  for 
calculating  the  working  effects  of  machinery  ;  of  the  strength,  resistance, 
and  pressure  of  materials  ;  with  tables  of  the  weight  and  cohesive  strength 
if  iron  and  other  metals.  Compiled  and  arranged  by  Thomas  Kelt,  of  the 
Gloucester  City  Machine  Company.  Complete  in  1  vol.,  12mo. 

To  the  careful  mechanic,  the  above  will  be  found  a  work  of  invaluable 
daily  reference.     Price  $1,00. 


Phillips,  Sampson  §  Company's  Publications. 


MUSIC  BOOKS. 


White's  Church   Melodist. 

A  new  Collection  or  Psalm  and  Hymn  Tunes,  adapted  to  the  wants  of 
Choirs,  Singing  Schools,  &c.  By  Edward  L.  White,  Editor  of  "  The  Mod- 
ern Harp,"  "  Melodeon,"  "  Sacred  Chorus  Book,"  &c. 


American   Collection ; 

OR,  SONGS  OF  SACRED  PRAISE. 

BY   EDWARD   HAMILTON,    ESQ. 

The  greater  portion  of  the  music  in  this  book  is  entirely  new,  and  of  a 
very  high  order ;  and  Choirs  will  mid  it  a  rich  accession  to  their  musical 
librariet 


Congregational  Singing  Book ; 

OR,  VESTRY  COMPANION. 

The  music  in  this  book  is  composed  entirely  of  old  choice  standard  tunes, 
such  as  will  be  familiar  to  all.  They  were  carefully  collected  and  edited 
by  Asa  Fitz,  Esq. 


Common  School  Song  Book. 

This  will  be  found  to  contain  a  very  choice  collection  of  simple,  and  for 
the  most  part,  familiar  airs,  beautifully  adapted  to  the  wants  of  Juvenile 
Choirs,  the  Private  Circle,  or  the  Scfiuol  Room.  Edited  by  Asa  Fitz,  Esq. 


Sabbath  School  Minstrel. 

This  little  volume  is  especially  adapted,  in  its  Music  and  Hymns,  to  the 
•ervice  of  the  Sabbath  School.  It  has  boon  much  admired  wherever  it  has 
been  used.  Edited  by  Asa  Fitz,  Esq. 


Greek  Course  of  Studies. 

Crosby's  Grammar  of  the  Greek  Language. 

Crosby's  Xenophon's  Anabasis. 

Crosby's  Greek  Lessons ;  consisting  of  selections  from  Xenophon's  Anab- 
asis wish  directions  for  the  study  of  the  Grammar,  Notes,  Exercises  in 
Translations  from  English  into  Greek,  and  a  Vocabulary.  The  above  are 
already  in  very  extensive  use  in  the  colleges  and  classical  schools,  and  are 
very  highly  recommended. 


f 


UNIVER% 


i  i 


UNIVER 


LIBRARYQc 

Jiy    I    S 

S     £ 


Kt  ^ 

§     2 


K«r        ^ 

1  S 

?     % 


E-UNIVER% 

& 


EUNIVERS/^. 

1    5 


*  i 

I  s 

i  I . 

%OJIWO-JO^ 


1! 


A     000029666     5 


l  ? 

f   s 


^UIBRARYOr 


1  a 

W-JO^' 


s  ^ 


1 1 


"IS      §5 

P/S    1 


VERV/j 


^       ^lOSANCElfj^ 

o 


LVf  * 

r-sm5^ 


^    i 


